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Vladimir Mikhailov lets out a booming laugh, attracting the attention of nearly all the guests in the room. “You are mistaken, Miss Amante. To me, the opera lost its appeal a long time ago. A few guests laugh at his statement. I relax a little and take a sip of champagne.
But to my shock, he grabs my chin and pulls it upwards, forcing me to look into his eyes. “Who are you really?” I can’t breathe.
From the corner of my eye, I see Viktor taking a step towards us, and Vladimir lets go of me. "I could be wrong, Miss Amante, but tell me, where did you grow up?"
I force my voice to speak evenly and clearly. "My name is Tatiana Amante," and I sit up straight, chin high. I’m filled with unexpected pride for my parents. Besides, I don’t know – have never known - any other name than Amante.
"Amante? You are sure that's it?"
There's something about this man besides the way he just held me that makes my skin crawl. I need to leave. Now.
"Quite certain. My parents brought me up in New York.” I stand up, holding onto the armrest to steady my shaky legs. “Thank you for the hospitality and support, sir. I wish you all the best, but I still have a flight to catch.”
Before I can turn and hurry from the room, I'm intercepted by an immaculately dressed woman. Her youthful face is at odds with her silver hair swept up in an elegant twist.
"Prima Donna!" she exclaims, grasping my hands warmly. "That was exquisite. You brought my husband to tears," she turns and smiles at Vladimir, who returns her smile with a tight-lipped one.
"He didn't even want to come. Can you imagine? But now, looking at how he asked for you, I understand you left quite a successful mark."
I realize who she is - the wife of the future president. She made him come tonight. I force a smile. "You're too kind," I reply. "I'm honored you both could attend."
She beams. "The honor was ours. It's not often one has the privilege of witnessing true artistry. You must join us for dinner tomorrow evening-"
"I'm afraid I must decline," I interject politely. "I have an early flight to catch."
Her face falls. "What a pity. I do hope we'll see you back in Saint. Petersburg soon."
Over her shoulder, I notice Viktor lingering nearby, his green eyes tracking my every movement. I restrain myself from reaching for the locket, glad that it is hidden under my scarf.
"Yes, soon," I echo absently. Making my excuses, I extricate myself from the woman's grasp. As I weave rapidly through the crowd towards the exit, the weight of Viktor’s stare follows me. I don't dare look back, but I hear his footsteps.
Finally, outside, I gulp the bracing night air. I wave away the reporters, who are shouting their questions and duck into the waiting car. Only once the theater is out of sight do I finally breathe freely again. I look back through the rear window to see Viktor’s green eyes watching me be driven away. That man - I have a terrible feeling he isn't done with me yet.
My mind whirls as the car speeds through the darkness towards the airport. What just happened back there? Is it possible I came close to the truth tonight? This is what I wanted: a glimmer of hope to know someone who could give me a glimpse into my past.
With regret, I wonder if I just threw away the best opportunity I had to learn more about my history. I stare out of the window. Snow begins to fall, and I wonder why the hell I felt so scared just when I was getting close to answers that I’ve been seeking my whole life.
Maybe it never was about the answers. Maybe I just needed to realize that I already have everything I need right now. My parents are waiting for me in New York, and I feel like a fool for wasting all these years thinking about the ‘what ifs’. I yearn to reach back and have them take me in their arms.
Chapter 19
Philippe
The reminder on my phone chimes, jolting me to attention. Tatiana's flight will be landing soon. I smooth my hair back and straighten my suit, pulse quickening. Soon, I’ll be able to wrap my arms around her.
I can’t wait another second, another moment. With the Bratva planning their war against us, which I’m sure I need to use every minute I have to see Tatiana. While I still have room to breathe and before things get out of hand.
I pick up my phone and call her manager, Martin Thorne.
“Mr. Accardo,” he basks in the glory of receiving this call, his voice higher-pitched and more exuberant than I recall. “What can I help you with today, sir?”
“Ms. Amante will be arriving back in New York soon.”
“Within the next hour, sir.”
“What are the arrangements for her pick-up?”
“Sir, I was planning on going myself and catching up on how her performance went.”
