You couldn’t if you tried, I almost say, but I bite back the words. Not my style. Not in public.
We move on. She explains the history behind a bronze sculpture, how the artist smuggled it out of Leningrad during the last days of the Soviet Union, how it nearly disappeared into a private collection in Switzerland.
I nod along, though my mind is only half on the art. The rest is busy cataloging details: the way her perfume—something faintly floral, not overpowering—lingers when she leans close to point out a flaw in the patina; the way her fingers tap the edge of her notebook whenever she’s thinking.
At one point, a couple of older men in dark suits drift close enough to hear, murmuring in Russian about thenew bloodrunning the Bratva. I feel her stiffen beside me.
She doesn’t look at them, but her grip on the notebook tightens until her knuckles go white. She knows more than she lets on, I’m certain now. Maybe it’s the Rossi name—a safe mask, or just a convenient coincidence.
When I look down, she’s watching me with a hint of wariness in her eyes, as if she expects me to break the spell and say something cruel. Instead, I ask quietly, “You’re not Russian. How did you end up here?”
She laughs, shaking her head. “Restoration is a small field, especially in New York. If you want to work, you follow the money. Most of it comes from collectors like your family.”There’s no accusation in her tone, but there’s a distance there, a line neither of us can quite cross.
I watch her lips as she talks, fascinated by the subtle tremor when she says my name, by the slight arch of her brow when she pushes for details about a painting’s provenance but never about my own. She doesn’t pry, but she doesn’t shy away, either. She’s too careful for that.
Chapter Five - Isabella
My pulse doesn’t settle. Not even when I’m moving, not even when I pretend the Sharov name is just another entry in the guest book, another blip in a world I can’t escape.
Emil Sharov.
The name echoes through my skull, sharp and final. Now I know for certain: he’s the man in the photograph, the shadow in Enzo’s secrets, the name my uncle said with clenched teeth in the dead of night.
He stands beside me, a black-suited contradiction. There’s nothing showy about him, but he doesn’t have to try. When Emil asks about the age of the bronze or the history of a particular painting, his tone is mild, almost disinterested.
His eyes linger, assessing, calculating, as if every answer I give is being filed away for later.
I keep my smile steady. I learned that trick young. My voice is smooth when I tell him about the provenance of the DeLuca mural, the way smuggled art pieces cross more borders than diplomats ever could.
My mind is only half on the words, half on the memory of that photograph. Enzo’s careless grin, the silver ring gleaming on Emil’s hand, the way they leaned together—trusted, maybe, or trapped.
We move through the exhibit, shoulders nearly brushing, and every time Emil’s hand grazes the frame beside mine, something tightens in my chest. His presence unsettles me. It’s not just the way he looks—cold, perfectly controlled—but the intensity beneath the surface, the sense that nothing here is truly safe. His gaze pins me, and for a second I wonder what he sees.
Does he know who I am? Or is he just curious about the girl with the wrong name and too many questions?
I force myself to stay focused, shifting into the role I know best—polite, professional, invisible when I need to be.
Tonight, I can’t help myself. I ask, as we pause beside a landscape with brushstrokes wild as a storm, “It must be complicated, importing Russian art these days. All the new regulations. I imagine collectors need good lawyers more than good taste.”
He looks at me, lips curving in a faint, knowing smile. “Lawyers are always useful.” His voice is low, almost teasing. “Taste is harder to buy.”
I match his smile, determined not to flinch. “I suppose that depends on what you’re buying.”
He offers nothing more. His answers are all surface, just enough to show me he isn’t fooled. I press once more, asking about the exhibition in St. Petersburg last fall, but he only shrugs. “I didn’t make it that year.” There’s a glint of amusement in his eyes, as if he enjoys watching me dig for information he has no intention of giving.
We continue, the air between us dense with things unsaid. My hands shake when I think no one’s looking, but my voice never wavers. I remind myself:he’s just a man. Just another criminal in a room full of them.Still, every time he looks at me, the memory of Enzo’s absence aches sharper in my chest.
A few minutes later, Emil’s phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, murmurs an apology, and excuses himself. He moves through the crowd with that same quiet confidence, everyone unconsciously giving him space. I watch him go, only releasing my breath once he’s nearly out of sight.
Needing a moment to collect myself, I drift toward the back of the gallery, near the offices. The corridor is quieter here, the noise of the crowd muffled by thick walls and the hum of the building’s old air-conditioning.
I let my fingers brush along the painted brick, grounding myself. I shouldn’t linger—there’s still work to do—but my mind is buzzing with questions I can’t answer.
As I turn the corner, I catch the sound of voices. They’re low, speaking Russian. I hesitate, half hidden by the doorframe, curiosity getting the better of me. The two men stand just outside a narrow office, one tall and ruddy-faced, the other older, his hair already thinning at the temples. Their conversation flows easily, too fast for me to follow every word, but I catch pieces—names, numbers, a quick laugh.
“…should have seen Grayson’s face when he saw the price,” the older man says in English, then slips back into Russian.
I focus, listening hard. The younger one drops his voice. “…Bruno family, still pretending they have a seat at the table.”
