After Katya leaves,I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling. Her perfume lingers in the air. It's a delicate, floral scent, one I recognize but can't name. It somehow soothes and agitates me at the same time.
My new bride is affecting me far more than I anticipated. It's only been a few days since she first walked into my life and she's already finding gaps in my armor, slipping through effortlessly.
I don't know whether she's deliberately trying to work her way under my skin or if she's one of those women who genuinely doesn't realize the effect she has on the men around her.
I should keep my distance like I planned. What I set out to do was find myself a suitable bride and agree a purely practical arrangement with her.
At first glance, Katya was the perfect candidate. A Bratva princess should understand how a union built on mutual benefit and defined boundaries works. I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.
Just a few days into our marriage the sands are already shifting beneath my feet because I failed to foresee how intriguing this woman would be.
I've tried to avoid her as much as possible, but it isn't working. I think about her as much when we're apart as I do in her presence. More, perhaps, because when she's not in the room with me, my imagination takes over and I find myself wondering what she's doing, how she feels. It's proving hard to manage.
I need to nip this in the bud before I get too attached. I made the mistake of getting in too deep with a woman once before and it almost cost me my life.
Perhaps I should fuck Katya out of my system then set her up in a house of her own. Even as I think it, I know I won’t do it. The need to have her close won’t ever go away.
As three o'clock rolls around, I accept that sleep won't come. Getting up from the bed, I pull on sweatpants and a t-shirt. I don't bother to cover my eye with a fresh patch. At this hour, there's nobody around to offend.
I head downstairs to my study, moving quietly through the house. I've always liked it at this hour, when everything is still.
Taking a seat at my desk, I switch on the laptop. For ten minutes I scroll through my emails. Nothing requires urgent attention. My businesses run smoothly thanks to the competent staff I employ.
Finding nothing to distract me, I close the laptop and sit back in my chair.
An urge I haven't felt in more than three years creeps over me. I open the bottom drawer of my desk and retrieve a sketchpad and pencil.
When I was a child I drew constantly, covering every blank piece of paper I found with sketches. Lukas used to complainabout it because when I'd filled my own school notebooks, I began to draw in his.
When my brothers expanded our operations to Florence and I was left in charge here in Rome, I had less time to indulge my passion. After the attack, I gave up drawing completely.
My depth perception isn't what it used to be. I have trouble with lighting and shade.
Though I regained other skills I’d lost, I couldn't get my brain to cooperate when I wanted to draw. Eventually frustration overwhelmed me and I gave up.
Opening the pad to a clean page, I pick up the pencil and roll it between my fingers, getting a feel for it once more. I start to draw.
At first it doesn't go well. The proportions of the face I'm attempting are off. The jaw is too wide, the eyes set too far apart. I score through it and turn the page. I breathe in deeply and put pencil to paper once more.
This time I try not to think too hard about what I'm doing. I let my hand move of its own accord, the way I used to when I was a boy, before I learned that there were rules to follow, techniques to perfect. I allow instinct to take over.
The pencil moves more freely across the page. Gradually, an image forms. Katya.
I work for hours on the elegant bow of her mouth. Her nose proves unexpectedly challenging. It's long and straight with a rounded tip. My first few attempts make it look bulbous and I work to correct that.
By the time I'm satisfied I've captured her likeness there's a painful cramp in my hand. I set the pencil down and stretch out my fingers.
I stare at the image I've created. It's not my finest work, but it shows some promise. Katya makes a good subject and I think about having her pose for me one day. Then I shake my head. I'msupposed to be purging myself of this growing obsession with my wife, not finding ways to fuel it.
Despite myself I continue to look at the picture until Lukas walks into the room. He's already dressed in a dark suit and white shirt. He glances at the sketchpad. Though his lips twitch, he says nothing.
As he drops onto the seat on the other side of the desk from me, he takes in my attire. I don't usually walk around the house dressed so casually.
"You've been here all night?" he asks.
"Not all night."
He gestures toward my injured eye.
