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Almost as if she’s staring back in horror at what she has unleashed.
“My glass is empty.” Zhanna waves a young waiter over, and he promptly takes her glass.
I take a deep breath, and the rich scent of expensive perfume fills my lungs as the ambient lights cast shadows on the mingling guests below. I wave away a glass of champagne.
“Eden Zakharovna,” Zhanna says gently. “You ought to enjoy yourself tonight.”
“I can’t.” I hesitate before I confess. “Zhanna, I’m pregnant.”
“Oh,gospodi!” She reaches out and gives me a quick hug, then presses her dry lips against my cheek.
The display of affection is noted by those in the room. The group of men from the wedding shower observe for a moment and then turn their gaze away. Where Natasha Chuikov’s kiss on my cheekearned me approval from the Bratva women, it appears that Zhanna’s golden touch has done the same for the Bratva men.
I manage a smile. “Thank you.”
“Grasp the moments you are given.” Zhanna’s gaze tears away from the painting. “Because they’ll comfort you later.”
My gaze drifts to Nikolai standing across the room. His tall figure cuts a striking silhouette against the backdrop of the party. He looks every inch the dashing Bratva prince, his features hard but achingly beautiful. My heartbeat quickens at the sight.
I made the right choice. I must have.
Zhanna taps my thigh. “Tell him to come sit with me.”
I’m eager to get away, partly for selfish reasons, but mostly so that I can continue admiring the details of the painting that had so long escaped me until Zhanna pointed them out.
8
NIKOLAI
The melodic soundsof violins and cellos weave through the air, and my gaze takes in the priceless works of art adorning the gallery walls.
I’m captivated by the intense emotion on the faces of the figures portrayed by Delacroix. Each brushstroke is a testament to the passion and conviction of the period. I can practically hear the cries of revolution as Liberté leads the people through the streets of Paris.
But Zhanna’s soft words compete with the masterpiece. Her hand is on Eden’s thigh; her gentle touch is insistent. As are the words she says—just loud enough for me to hear.
Among the illustrious guests, I see several familiar faces—all influential members of the Bratva, their cold gazes continually assessing each other. I nod politely to Anatoli Popov, and he returns the gesture. Tonight, it’s pleasure before business.
That comes later.
Eden approaches me. Her gown accents her beautiful body, and her soft expression tempts me.
“Zhanna wants a moment with you,” she says.
I can’t say I’m surprised, so I make my way over while Eden takes my place before the painting. Zhanna greets me with an uncharacteristically warm smile. She’s draped in an elegant, beaded gown, looking every bit the powerful matriarch that she is.
I offer a polite nod as I sit down. “You’re stunning as ever,krestnaya.”
“Have you studied this painting closely while I speak with your lovely fiancée?” Zhanna says, gesturing to Eugène Delacroix’s masterpiece.
“I have,” I reply. “Idealism caught in a vicious world on the verge of falling into barbaric cruelty. A glimmer of hope just before the plunge.”
“Exactly,” Zhanna agrees. “Can you not see the similarities? Eden’s bloodline can lead you out of your troubles.”
“I have to protect her.” My gaze flickers between the painting and the woman. “I can’t?—”
“She’s not a fragile piece of art meant to be locked under glass in a climate control room,” Zhanna scoffs. “You men are all the same. Always presuming that we are weak creatures incapable of handling pain. If only you had to experience the pain of childbirth even once…”
“This is still new to Eden.” I nod, trying not to laugh out loud. “And the unknown can be dangerous. She has a difficult choiceahead of her. And even she does not know if she can make that choice.”
