“I probably shouldn’t. I haven’t practiced in a long time, and?—”
As I say the words, I realize how odd they sound. I’ve been practicing my entire life. Why wouldn’t I be ready to entertain some people for an hour spontaneously?
Mikhail continues to watch me patiently, his gaze like an endearing caress. He probably knows exactly what just went through my head, but he’s not pushing me, not demanding I do anything I don’t want to.
“Are you sure people want me that visible, though? I mean, I know the Bratva isn’t too happy with the alliance with my father. I wouldn’t want you two or Wolfgang to face scrutiny because of me.”
“I’ll take this from here,” my husband says to Victoria, who brushes her hand across my arm before leaving us alone.
I roll my eyes jokingly at him. “Come on. I’m serious. My concerns are valid. It’s not about my insecurity.”
He lifts my chin with his index finger. “Do not. Ever. Put yourself below the people in this room,” he drawls. “They all know who you are to me.”
“Well, of course they know I’m your wife, but what if they all hate me?”
“If they hate you, that’s their problem.” His gaze hardens. “You don’t survive in this world by begging for approval. And you should know that, since you’ve already lived it once. I won’t let you do it again.”
He lets go of my chin, eyes glancing around the room until he lifts two fingers in the air, summoning someone. A few moments later, a new glass of wine appears by my elbow.
“Drink. You’re overthinking this,” he says.
I let out a breath, nodding as I take the glass and sip. He’s right. I can’t give up on myself before I even start my music career. My dream is very much still alive, and if I want it, I’m going to have to ruffle some feathers occasionally, even if those feathers belong to big, dangerous Russians.
I hand him the drink and walk past him, making my way through the crowd as my pulse increases. I don’t have to look back to see he’s probably smug with satisfaction. Frankly, he deserves to be. I love that he challenged me to change my mind.
As usual, when I sit at the piano, everything else fades into nothingness.
I no longer focus on the chatter, or the lack of practice I’ve had lately, or the nerves swarming low in my stomach. I simply bring my hands to the keys and let them carry me.
Consolation No. 3 by Franz Liszt fills the room, a dreamy, slow-moving, gentle tune that carries hope and nostalgia. I learned to play it at fifteen, thinking of life beyond the bars of my father’s cage. Of a freedom I’d never taste, nor hold in my palm for even a fraction of a second. I never thought I’d be playing it for other people. Now, here I am, away from home, pressing the notes effortlessly, languidly, as that freedom takes form in front of me.
By the time I stop playing, the room is silent. Eyes still closed, I smile, the trickle of emotion that scurries down my spine a gentle caress telling me I’ll be alright.
A soft, unexpected kiss lands on top of my head.
“Exquisite. Absolutely fucking exquisite,” my husband says behind me. “She should’ve charged you fuckers a million perseat. Consider yourselves lucky to experience her music before she blows up.”
“Fuck. Me,” another voice says somewhere far away. Then, the room explodes with applause.
I don’t dare turn around to face them, but Mikhail takes my hand, helping me stand. “Take your praise, sweetheart. You earned it,” he whispers so only I can hear.
My chest expands with heavy breaths as I raise my gaze to the crowd. Some are frowning and sitting, clearly applauding just because they can’t risk defying theirPakhan. But the others…the majority, in fact, are on their feet, appreciative of the experience. I feign a smile, realizing this is what it could feel like.
My dream catching form. My mother’s passion flowing through me as I let the world see us both.
“Thank you,” I murmur to Mikhail, who answers with a slow shake of his head.
“No. Thankyou, Cecilia,”he seems to say.
Later, as the Bratva prepares to end the evening, I’m surrounded by a few people who wanted to introduce themselves to me. There’s Sergei Malevsky—the Bratva’s treasurer—and his wife, Daria, and then there’s Leon, avor v zakone,a high-ranking thief, according to my husband. I stand next to them, holding his strong arm.
“Only one recital?” Daria asks, surprised. “How come? If we had known about you last year, we would’ve paid handsomely to have you play at our wedding.”
Sergei laughs, looking to the side, as if he doesn’t quite agree with his wife. I try not to let it get to me.
“That’s very kind of you. Sometimes, things can be slower on the West Coast,” I say, not wanting to throw Ms. Donatello under the bus. “I wasn’t sure I wanted that much exposure at the time.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re ready now,” she beams. “I’llhaveto tell my girlfriends about you at brunch this weekend.”
