“You really want to know?”
“I really want to know.”
I study the piece, letting myself analyze it not for forgery but for meaning. “The artist is exploring continuity and change. See how the grandmother’s portrait uses classical techniques? Oil on canvas, realistic rendering. The mother’s is mixed media, blending photography with paint. The daughter’s is digital, but the composition mirrors the grandmother’s pose.”
“So, tradition adapting rather than disappearing.”
“Exactly.” I move closer to examine the brushwork on the grandmother’s portrait. “It’s also about what we inherit versus what we choose. The grandmother had no choice about her life in Soviet Russia. The mother lived through the transition. The daughter has options that her grandmother never imagined.”
“Which one are you?”
I look at him and ask, “What?”
“In your family. Are you the grandmother preserving tradition, the mother bridging two worlds, or the daughter choosing something new?”
“I don’t know. Maybe all three, depending on the day.” I turn away from the painting. “My grandmother died before I was born, but my mother said I had her eyes. Dmitri and Alexei remember the Soviet era, even if they were kids. I only know the after.”
“Do you wish you’d known what came before?”
“Sometimes. But mostly, I’m glad I didn’t have to live through it.” I walk to the next piece, a sculpture made from old military medals welded together. “My brothers carry that history in ways I don’t. They remember scarcity and fear. I just remember them keeping me safe from it.”
Tony follows me through the rest of the exhibition. He ducks a bit to avoid a low-hanging installation, and the movement reminds me of how much larger he is than I am. Broad shoulders, thick arms, and hands that could crush or cradle with equal ease. I’ve tried not to think about those hands since the apartment.
He asks questions about technique and symbolism, admits when he doesn’t understand something, and listens when I explain. It’s refreshing talking to someone who appreciates art without pretending to be an expert.
By the time we leave, I’ve almost forgotten why we’re in London.
Almost.
“Thank you for this,” I tell him as we walk back toward the hotel. “I needed it.”
“I could tell. You’ve been wound pretty tight since the apartment.”
“Someone tried to kill us. I think that justifies some stress.”
“Fair point.” He guides me around a group of tourists blocking the sidewalk. His hand lands on my lower back to steer me, and the warmth of his palm seeps through my jacket. He doesn’t remove it even after we’ve passed the crowd. “But you’re allowed to take breaks from being in survival mode. Even in our world.”
Ourworld. Like he’s already part of it. Like he belongs with the Kozlovs instead of just working for us.
Maybe he does. Maybe that’s what scares me. Or maybe what scares me is how much I want him to belong. How much I want those hands on more than just my back.
Back at the hotel, we order room service and eat dinner while watching terrible British television. Tony mocks the accents. I throw a pillow at him. For an hour, everything feels almost normal.
Then, his phone rings.
He checks the screen, and his face goes flat. “Sorry. I need to take this.” He steps onto the small balcony and closes the door behind him.
I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I watch his body language through the glass. Tense. Unhappy. Whatever the conversation is about, he doesn’t like it. My training kicks in as I note the way he grips the railing, the rigid set of his spine, and how his free hand keeps curling into a fist. This is a man receiving orders he doesn’t want to follow.
Five minutes later, he comes back inside looking like he wants to punch something.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Fine. Just my uncle’s lawyer. Estate stuff that won’t go away.” He tosses his phone on the desk. “Let’s talk about tomorrow. Your contact. What’s her name again?”
He’s lying. His uncle died five years ago. And Tony doesn’t strike me as a man who forgets details.
How much estate business could possibly remain?
