Busy streets with people running toward God knows where, not even bothering to look around them. The constant smell of foods unsettled my stomach. The hyperatmosphere as if life couldn’t wait until a better time, that work and the overriding desire to move forward was more important than life itself.
This was beyond my understanding, although a lot of people compared it with Moscow. I didn't give a fuck about Moscow either. I never bothered to permanently reside there, so maybe it explained my distaste for this city. Although I had to admit the chilly breeze and colorful nature in spring was worth a stay for a day or two, as they had amazing parks.
Why the fuck did I even bother to think about the weather?
“We’ll be there in a few, sovietnik,” Petor said politely, and pleasure ran through me at the title, not so much for the respect it gave me among the Bratva, but for getting my identity back. Piece by piece, maybe I could find a man there instead of a raging animal who lived for nothing but revenge. But then again, being calledcell number twentyorfucked-up Russian piece-of-shitfor almost six years would probably do it to everyone.
Suddenly, old memories and the rage came back, and I snapped, “Stop the car and wait for me somewhere around here.” Quickly, he did just that, and I got out, breathing heavily and counting my heartbeats as my fists clenched while I shook my head from the internal voices.
“Sovietnik, not so mighty now, huh?” Ben raised my plate and spat in it, making a show for everyone to see as the prison cafeteria quieted. “Here, it should be tastier.” He threw the dish in front of me, and I rose swiftly to deliver a blow to his smug face, when the thought of Vivian entered my mind reminding me, in this place, I had a reason to live.
I sat back down, not touching the food, but not giving any reaction either, and in a few minutes, he grew bored and went away, leaving me with the satisfaction of knowing I hadn't jeopardized my chances of seeing my angel.
Strolling down the line toward one of the most prestigious galleries in the city, I wondered if Vivian got everything out of life she had ever wanted.
The girl had many dreams.
Finally, I stopped right in front of the building with a bohemian look, which was located on the edge of the exclusive Upper East Side. The small two-level establishment was made out of white brick with huge windows opening a view into the gallery inside. I saw wooden floors, exquisite white and black chandeliers, and delicate pink colors appeared here and there in the form of vases or figurines on the tables.
The huge sign on the building said, “Vivian Jackson Gallery.” Painted in blue, it was big enough for everyone to notice, and pride rushed through me at her success, because my girl had been about to give up her dream all those years ago. No one possessed her talent for guessing and feeling the emotions of other people.
However, all this didn't even matter as the minute anyone’s eyes landed on it, they would notice the unique black-and-white photos hanging on the walls, which created a story of their own.
Each portrait had people in different stages of their adulthood, catching the moment of their happiness. It allowed the viewer to notice every wrinkle, every flicker in the eyes, the emotions passing through them as they lived in that moment, creating a desirable connection with those feelings of happiness, and for a second, you believed you were part of it. In my case, it only inspired a longing like a raging inferno that no amount of water could soothe.
But the real beauty, at least to my eyes, stood right in the middle of the gallery with her back to me, wearing her favorite blue, retro, cocktail, party swing dress, a fucking name I had to learn since she only wore dresses. She finished the look with black high heels that showcased her amazing legs and emphasized the curves of her body, which my hands itched to touch.
Her silky brown hair fell down her spine in heavy waves that swayed from side to side as she moved, and I didn't need to see her brilliant sky-blue eyes to know they probably sparkled with excitement and wonder. She had this look anytime she saw something of her own creation.
All those thoughts made me almost laugh out loud, fucking poetic sap I’d become, but then all the information I had gathered rushed back at me, almost knocking the wind from me, and fury settled inside me again.
And in that moment, Vivian spun around and our gazes clashed in the window. She hitched a swift intake of breath and stepped back as the papers she held fell to the ground.
Yes, my krasivoglazaya. I came.
I walked to the door and stepped inside, ready to claim everything that was rightfully mine.
Vivian
What was he doing here?
Gulping for air, I hectically searched for a reason for him to show up in my gallery after months of silence. Wasn't he done with me?
What the fuck was he thinking, showing up here like this?
Radmir entered the gallery, the door shutting loudly after him, while the bell above echoed all around the place. We stared at one another, my eyes drinking in his masculine beauty, because I didn't have enough time to study him all those months ago.
Although he reminded me more of his old self with his tailored suit that emphasized his muscles, clean-shaven face, and the smell of cigars and expensive cologne that I associated only with him. His hair, grown longer, was put in a man bun. Somehow, it only made him hotter—to my annoyance.
Everything female awakened inside me as his hungry gaze roamed over my body, and I craved his hands and mouth on me, imagining what he could do with them.
But then reality kicked it, reminding me how carelessly he left me on that bed and never bothered to contact me in all this time.
“What are you doing here?” My voice sounded shaky from the turmoil going on inside, and I cleared my throat.
“Isn’t it obvious?” He took a step in my direction. Instinctively, I moved back, and he froze. “Vivian,” he said my name huskily as if trying to caress me with it. He used to do that all the time six years ago; all he had to do was speak, and I’d know how much he loved me.
He’d never used this voice again, not even during our night together five months ago.
