Chapter 6: Vlad

New York: a city crowded like a Black Friday sale. But worse. It was like they were trying to squeeze all the vodkas into one tiny shot glass.

I looked outside my window, watching as people packed like sardines on the sidewalks. The city was bustling with life, and the energy levels were off the charts. It was as if the entire population of Wyoming could fit into one neighborhood in this crowded city. And still, more would come. Idiots!

They say the city never sleeps, and in my opinion, that wasn't far from the truth.

Regardless, it was a beautiful place, and the view from the backseat of the car wasn't bad. The sun cast a warm glow over the concrete jungle, making everything seem golden, even the trash. Towering skyscrapers pierced the sky, and the city's skyline unfolded like a canvas of steel and glass.

The lofty arch of the Brooklyn Bridge, the stately opulence of the New York Public Library, and the bright lights of Times Square were all revealed as we drove around the city that would be my new home—for the time being, anyway.

This wasn't my first time in New York; I'd visited the city a couple of times before, but only for business-related issues. I wasn't the type to roll well with a crowd. I hated it, and NYC was known for its crowding.

The city was so dense that you could find a different nationality, language, or cuisine on every block—sometimes, all at once.

I toiled with the cufflink on my left sleeve, thinking about how different St. Petersburg was compared to this bustling city.

New York was beautiful, but I liked my homeland better. Russia was more beautiful in every aspect.

It was too noisy out here—no peace and quiet.

"Hey, watch it, punk!" a cyclist yelled at a driver who almost knocked him down.

Like I said, too noisy.

The car came to a halt, waiting for the light to turn green. I gritted my teeth in displeasure, as the driver directly behind us wouldn't stop blaring his horn, yelling God-knows-what.

In a short while, we were in motion again.

Americans were too loud and carefree; I didn't like them. But I didn't have much of a choice because I was stuck with them for the time being, thanks to my cousin, Maksim. He just decided to send me…. Of all the Wolkovs, he chose me to come to America, knowing full well that I hated leaving my home country.

As Pakhan , his orders were not to be disobeyed. I didn't like being here, but I was compelled to; that was loyalty on my part. He'd ordered me to take care of the business here in New York, and that was exactly what I would do.

I caught Simon's eyes watching me through the rear-view mirror. He had a faint grin etched on his face, like he knew exactly what I was thinking; he truly did. He'd been with me long enough to understand my reactions to different situations.

Our driver was Fyodor Apagov, Maksim's right-hand man. He was in charge of making sure that I was fully settled in the city. He'd taken his time to show me around, introducing me to our business associates.

Today, he was driving us to a gallery opening in New York City's Chelsea, a neighborhood known for its vibrant art scene, trendy galleries, and hip atmosphere. At least, that was what Simon said he'd read on the internet.

The reason we were headed there was to network with other powerful and influential visitors who would be present at the gallery. So, basically, you could say I was going there on business.

Fyodor pulled over outside a building with a magnificent exterior that featured tall arched windows framed by ornate stone carvings.

The backseat door opened for me, and I stepped out, adjusting my coat, my eyes scanning the surroundings.

My men flanked me as Simon and I followed Fyodor to the entrance: heavy wooden doors polished to a shine with intricate carvings and patterns that gave it a touch of elegance.

Fyodor pushed the doors open, and we stepped inside.

The air was filled with the subtle scent of fresh flowers arranged in vases at strategic locations throughout the expansive space, and soft classic music played in the background.

With graceful steps, the waitstaff moved around, serving drinks in silver trays.

The walls were lined with captivating portraits: a diverse array of incredible art pieces that had me enthralled. I was impressed by the paintings that I saw, and I wasn't one to be so easily impressed. This artist was good. The oil paintings and contemporary sculptures seemed carefully displayed to draw my eye.

Under the high ceilings and moldings that soared above, I made my way through the crowd of people dressed to impress, their conversations a low hum that filled the space, blending with a mix of different colognes and perfumes.

"These are amazing," Simon said, admiring some pieces as he walked beside me.

"The artist, Caspian Nightingale, is really talented," Fyodor said, "He always adds a touch of excellence to his work, making his pieces…unique."

"I can see that," I replied, accepting a glass of champagne from a waitstaff's tray.

Simon helped himself to a piece of hors d'oeuvre from the same tray.

"Come on, there's a couple of people I'd like you to meet," Fyodor said, leading the way to a small group of impeccably dressed men—our associates.

We followed.

"Gentlemen," he greeted, adjusting his tie as we halted before them.

"My, oh my, look who it is," one of them said, his eyes fixed on me.

The old man seemed absorbed by my presence; in fact, the smirk on his face couldn't be any more subtle.

"Vladimir Wolkov himself, in the flesh." He chuckled.

I squinted, and before I could even think, he added. "Oh, come on, don't be so surprised; your reputation precedes you." He shook my hand, adding, "Bradley Finch is the name."

"Nice to meet you," I said.

He chuckled. "No, that pleasure's all mine."

"You have a famous name among the brotherhood, Mr. Wolkov," another said, offering his hand.

I shook it with a nod.

It was no news that my name had spread like wildfire in the criminal underworld, even here in New York.

We talked for the next few minutes; actually, they talked, and I listened. Mr. Finch wouldn't stop praising me, saying he loved the way I handled my business. He was a lively one, throwing jokes here and there, but in time, I got bored.

However, while standing with these men, something caught my eye, stealing my attention. It was an artwork hanging on the wall in front of me. The piece was so fascinating—dark and agonizing yet beautifully made.

My gaze was captivated by this hauntingly amazing piece, reminiscent of Edgar Degas' impressionist style.

Although it was Caspian Nightingale's original work, it reminded me a lot about Degas' "Echoes of the Night." Maybe he drew inspiration from the deceased artist.

"Whispers in the Dark" was the name of this painting—I saw it written at the base of the portrait—and before I knew it, I was standing before it, enamored by the artist's precision and skill.

The painting was a mesmerizing oil on canvas piece, evoking the mystique of a moonlit night with thousands of stars twinkling in the sky. A series of soft, feathery brush strokes danced across the canvas, enveloping a lone figure that seemed to be drowning in a sea of despair. Within the darkness of the woods, painted to reality, a hand stretched out, conjuring whispers of secrets shared beneath the stars. Shadows twirled and writhed, like dark tendrils of vines, as a streak of smoke surrounded the figure, the gender of which was artistically concealed.

I took a sip of my champagne, eyes glued to this masterpiece that had drawn me to it, a piece I felt so connected to, like it whispered secrets that only I could hear. In a strange way, I saw myself in that portrait, and the story hidden in it was one filled with darkness and loneliness. There was also a glint of hatred, anger with a touch of violence and betrayal.

As I studied the painting, I noticed, at a small distance, another enthusiast looking at the piece with the same passion as I was.

That instant, we locked eyes with each other.

Peering closely at the enthusiast, I immediately recognized those sharp green eyes and that heart-shaped face. I had met her only once in Russia, but I was certain it was her.

How could I not recognize the only girl who had been running through my mind for a while now?

It was Sienna Summers.

Her eyes widened, and her cheeks flushed with a soft pink hue. Her lips parted slightly, and she seemed to hold her breath as if caught off guard by my presence. Sienna's gaze faltered, and she immediately looked away, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

I smirked, feeling a wind of passion brush over my face.

She was so beautiful in that red dress, with its hem almost sweeping the fine floor. Her feet were perfectly balanced on a pair of silver heels. Around her neck was a silver jewel that shimmered in the lights, as did the watch on her left wrist, which was the same color.

She was shy and avoided eye contact with me, but the smile on her face remained. Her slender body tensed, yet her sparkling eyes darted back to mine as if drawn by a magnet.

Sienna's grin revealed her perfect white teeth, even though she seemed troubled about what to do next. She was probably contemplating saying hello or just acting like she didn't recognize me. But the latter was almost impossible.

Her turmoil must have resulted from what her grandmother or the rest of the family had told her about me.

I flashed her a warm grin, hoping that she'd mirror it, and she did with a shy smile of her own, her eyes dazzling with a hint of mischief.

This was the invitation I needed, so I approached her.

"Fascinating, isn't it?" I asked. "The painting."

"Of course," she replied, returning her eyes to it. "It captures a story hidden within the brush strokes." She stole a glance at me. "This piece reminds me of Degas' iconic ‘Echoes of the Night.'" She let out a soft sigh. "Nightingale is truly talented."

I smirked; she was indeed an art enthusiast. "Remarkable," I said. "I didn't know you were into art."

"Well…" she said, blushing, "art is beautiful, and I love beautiful things."

"That makes the two of us," I said with a low hum.

For the next two seconds, we locked eyes in silence, her smile unwavering.

"Take this piece, for instance." Her eyes darted back to it. "It already resonates with me, and I see hope and beauty in it. Like a little light in the dark."

"How do you see light in that?" My brows instinctively rose. "All I see is darkness, pain, and suffering," I said, wondering where she saw hope and beauty in the painting.

She glanced at me and flashed that pretty smile of hers. "You see agony and despair, but I see a struggle to find light in a world consumed by darkness. How come you don't?"

I paused for a moment, shifting my gaze back to the portrait. "I guess that's because I view the world from a broken lens." I turned to her. "Where you see good, I see evil."

"We both have different opinions on this, then."

"I couldn't agree more. We see what we want to see," I replied. "I guess that's the magic of art."

"Maybe," she said, looking right at me. "But why would you want to see pain and suffering?"

I paused for a moment. "When you've lived so long in darkness, it's hard to imagine a world without it. You became one with it, with the pain and all the suffering that comes with it. Therefore, when you look at things, that's all you see."

"Are you talking about the painting or everything in general?" she asked, unwilling to tear her gaze from me.

I couldn't respond, so she added, "What do you see when you look at me? Do you see pain and suffering?"

She almost threw me off balance with her question; it was a trick, and I had to think before giving her my response.

"You're beautiful," I said, "No one will see pain and suffering when they look at you." My eyes bore into hers, and I offered her a faint grin when her cheeks turned red.

"Thank you," she replied. "If you can see beauty in me, surely you can manage to see the light in this painting." She returned her eyes to it.

"Unfortunately, I can't," came my reply. "The more I try to see anything other than darkness and pain, the more darkness I see."

She was supposed to have been disturbed by the words that I'd spoken; many would have been. But Sienna looked at me as though I was some lost sheep. She wasn't scared or anything. No. She simply retained her smile.

"What's so amusing?" I asked.

"Nothing, really," she replied. "It's just that even in darkness, there's always a glimmer of hope. You just have to find it."

I admired the good in her, her ability to be optimistic, and for a minute, we both stared at each other, not saying a word.

Sienna and I were from different worlds, had different opinions on life, and saw things differently. Our individual views on this portrait reflected our personalities, and everything about her was positive. She saw the good in things; no matter how faint a light was in the dark, she'd spot it. She was the exact opposite of me.

Within this last minute, she showed me that I could see things from a different perspective, that life wasn't black and white. Sienna's lack of fear also intrigued me, drawing me to her and deepening my affection for this fearless, confident, and positive-minded girl.

Unlike terms do attract .

I realized that there and then.

"But you have to admit, despite our differences, we have one thing in common," I said, savoring her smile with a cocky smirk.

"What's that?"

"We both find this piece fascinating."

Sienna chuckled lightly. "True."

I took a sip of my champagne.

"So…" she said, changing the subject. "How do you like New York so far?"

I buried a hand in my pocket. "Well, it's not St. Petersburg."

She laughed. "Come on, there's gotta be something—gimme something." Her face lit up in excitement, accentuating her beauty.

"It's not all bad," I confessed, unable to quit staring at her.

I didn't want to come off as creepy, but it didn't matter how many times I tried to look away; I simply couldn't. She had me under her spell, gluing my eyes to her alluring figure.

"See, that wasn't so hard," she said amidst chuckles.

"Don't get ahead of yourself," I joked. "I still haven't found places that offer good food."

"Well, you're in luck because I happen to know a ton of those places. But there's this one place that's, like, my personal favorite. I go there every weekend. It's in the downtown area, and it's called Josie's—it's super popular, so you shouldn't have trouble finding it."

"Josie's, eh?"

Sienna nodded. She was so full of life and light, and it was amazing how comfortable she was around me. I was pretty sure she knew the type of man I was, yet she was so free. I admired that about her.

"Josie's sounds amazing," I said. "Maybe I'll try it out sometime."

She gazed at me and replied, "Yeah, you should. You won't regret it." Her sharp green eyes sparkled, and her black hair shimmered beneath the golden glow of the chandelier above.

"Hey, Sienna!" a female voice called out from behind her.

She glanced back at the girl standing at a distance and then faced me again. "That's my cue. I have to go now."

I was disappointed that our little talk was interrupted, but I wouldn't keep her with me a second longer, even though that was exactly what I wanted to do.

"It was nice seeing you again," she added.

"You, too, Sienna." I gave a faint grin.

"Alright. Bye," she said softly.

I raised my glass in acknowledgment and watched her hurry up in her heels to meet her friend. Even while the two girls were in motion together, Sienna took one last look at me with a charming smile.

Her beauty, once again, left me in awe. I was deeply drawn to her, captivated not just by her looks but by the aura and the goodness she exuded.

This was all shades of wrong, not to mention dangerous. It was a forbidden passion, one that I shouldn't feel, but would I be able to resist giving in?

Trouble was knocking at the door, and I might just as well answer it.