7. Nik

7

I can't stop thinking about her.

It's the most aggravating thing.

As soon as I leave the vacant room and step out into the museum's gardens, I'm accosted by people who want to chat me up. I couldn't care less about the insipid conversations I'm forced to endure, mainly because every little thing reminds me of her.

I repeatedly catch myself drawing comparisons between all the women approaching me and her. All of them are lacking in one way or another.

If their eyes are blue, their color isn't as deep or vivid as hers.

Similarly, if they are brunettes, their hair is a mousy, unappealing brown instead of her rich chocolate hue.

Whenever a woman gets close enough that I can smell her perfume, I must suppress a sigh—their scent can't hold a candle to hers.

I even resent having to shake other people's hands. After feeling the smooth expanse of her skin, I don't want to touch anything else.

Time after time, whenever the endless chatting inevitably dies down, I can almost hear her breathy moans in my head.

Naturally, I drain drink after drink to clear my hazy mind, but the bitter liquor only reminds me of how sweet she tasted in comparison.

It's hopeless. I'm nothing but a pathetic, lovesick fool.

This new character flaw couldn't have come at a worse time. I must forget this woman at all costs. Daydreaming about her is a waste of my time and energy, which could be better used fixing things with Maxim.

As I suffer in silence at the museum's gardens, a man I couldn't name to save my life rattles on and on about some unidentified topic I don't even pretend to be interested in until I feel a tap on my shoulder.

Grateful for this interruption to my endless torture, I turn around and find one of my bratva associates, Vladmir Smirnov.

"Nikolai," Vlad says, leaning closer to me. "There's something you need to see."

The man tries to convey his urgency to me discreetly. Vladmir's demeanor would seem casual and relaxed to anyone observing our interaction, but I know him well enough to understand that something is seriously wrong.

"If you will excuse me," I say to the man speaking at me before Vladmir's welcome interruption.

I let Vlad escort me away. At this point, he has been with the bratva for more than half a decade. Many of the other associates question his short temper and impulsiveness, but I keep him around because of his quiet reliability. No matter how complex or unpleasant the job is, Vladmir will get it done without voicing any complaints.

I study him as we pass through the ongoing party. Vladmir is taller than most of the guests who surround us. Throughout all the years we've known each other, he has kept his hair cropped short in an efficient buzz cut. In contrast, he has always sported a full, neatly trimmed beard.

As I watch him, he runs his right hand over his mouth, then over his head. His light green eyes never meet mine as he guides me towards the museum's main building.

An ominous feeling washes over me. Vladmir is always quick to display his emotions—often in a rash, loud, and impetuous manner. And yet, in all the years we've worked together, I've never seen him act this apprehensive. His forehead glistens with sweat as he glances around the surrounding area.

We climb the marble steps leading to the museum's entrance. Once we cross the doorway, I'm shocked to find most of my men inside the building. I assumed they were enjoying the festivities in the gardens.

I can think of only a handful of reasons for them to gather like this, and almost none of them would be good news.

Very few of my men openly meet my eyes as I follow Vladmir through the museum's hall. Most of them avoid glancing in my direction, looking down or away, instead.

Vlad guides me through a long, dark hallway cordoned off for tonight's event.

I familiarized myself with the museum's layout before tonight's gala. I'm always overly cautious with the security of the Flame of Mir. Still, my due diligence served me well this evening when I desperately needed to find a private area.

The corridor is deserted. Mentally orienting myself, I recall it leads to a large room dedicated to one of the museum's ongoing exhibitions, Italian Masters. It houses a dozen paintings and sculptures from the Renaissance and Baroque periods.

We approach the exhibition's entryway. More of my men linger outside the door. Unlike the edgy shestyorka out front, these are higher-ranking members of the bratva. They don't avoid making eye contact with me. The vori stare at me instead, somber expressions all over their faces. My sense of dread grows.

Dmitri is by the door. Covering the distance between us in a couple of short strides, I reach to open the door when he stops me.

"Nik, wait," he says. "Hold on for just a second. You need to prepare yourself, Nik."

I don't wait for Dmitri to finish his sentence. Shoving his hand away, I push the door open and step into the exhibition room, eager to end this endless suspense.

The first thing I see is Caravaggio's famous painting, The Taking of Christ. It looms dark and magnificent on the wall directly in front of me across the large chamber. In the back of my mind, I'm taken aback to see it here. I thought it was supposed to be housed in the National Gallery of Ireland.

The dark brown hardwood floors and the scarlet wallpaper covering the windowless walls lend the room a gloomy ambience. Its poorly lit state only adds to the grim atmosphere.

This shadowy environment is likely why I take a while to notice the body in front of the notorious art piece.

I can't tell the dead man's identity straight away. Not from this far away—the chamber is too dismally illuminated to allow that.

I slowly approach the cadaver, seized by that unsettling feeling of foreboding again as my heart trashes and thunders within my chest.

Finally, I reach the body. Looking down, I glance at his face, immediately feeling as if my heart has come to a sudden, screeching halt. Utterly shocked, I inhale sharply.

Maxim.