Page 59 of Arranged for the Russian Pakhan

His face is composed, as it always is, but there’s something careful in his eyes. His chin tilts almost imperceptibly toward the front of the studio.

“Is he in the waiting area?”

“He declined to wait in the waiting area. With a gun.”

I reach for my phone. I set the gilder’s tip precisely parallel to the edge of the worktable. I look at the Madonna one more time—at her downturned face, her patient, painted grief—and I think, Look at her, she’s survived five hundred years of people making poor decisions around her. Whatever is at the front of my atelier will survive the next five minutes.

“I’ll handle it,” I tell Filip.

I forget, sometimes, that guns scare regular people.

That’s the life of a Bratva princess, though, isn’t it?

***

I didn’t think the thing I had to handle would be Boris Zakharov, standing in the middle of my reception area with his stick in one hand, examining the framed provenance documents on the walls with the expression of a man who finds them mildly puzzling and has no particular interest in resolving the puzzle. He looks exactly as he always does: weathered, immovable, ornery. A man with a chip on his shoulder that’s so big, it’s no wonder he needs a stick to walk.

I don’t feel bad for that uncharitable thought.

My poor archivist, Javier, is stationed between him and the hallway, with the expression of someone who has said no several times and has been very firmly informed that no is not an option. He looks relieved when he sees me.

“Mr. Zakharov,” I say. “You should’ve called ahead.”

I don’t add, So I could’ve pretended we’re closed. So I could enjoy not having to look at your mean, ugly face.

“I don’t call ahead,” Boris says. As if this is simply a fact about himself, like his eye color or the limp he walks with.

“In that case, I should tell you that I don’t do unscheduled visits.” I look at Javier. “Thank you. I’ve got it from here.”

He retreats with what I recognize as grateful haste. I don’t blame him.

“Your boy tried to turn me away,” he accuses.

“Yes. He’s well-trained,” I say, a cold smile curving my mouth. “I heard he had some persuasion applied to him. He mentioned the appearance of a firearm.”

Boris is unrepentant. “I showed it to him. I wouldn’t have if words were effective.”

“I also have a gun, Mr. Zakharov. So, I’d recommend you stick to your words, insofar as I deign to listen to them.” I hold his gaze. “If I pull mine out, I’ll be shooting your knees. Those are the only wiles I need. Do we understand each other?”

If I didn’t know better, I’d say my bluntness earns me a moment of shining respect in his eyes. An acknowledgment of a quality he hadn’t expected to encounter, and may quietly revise his assumptions in light of it. What are the chances?

His chin dips slightly. The world’s most grudging concession.

“Shall we?” I gesture toward the hallway, away from the reception, back inside my office.

I don’t offer him a seat. There’s only the chair in front of my writing desk and the stool I like to work on. Extraneous furniture is just clutter in the restoration room; it’s purposefully not designed for visitors.

There is, however, a high worktable, state-of-the-art lighting, and the tools of a very particular trade laid out with the precision I require of everything in this space. If he feels inclined to be impressed.

If not, there’s always the altarpiece, which I had to leave under the raking light. I can see that it catches Boris’ eye. With Madonna’s gilded border catching the light and throwing it back in fragments, I understand.

With a hefty exhale, I sink back down onto my stool. I pull my magnification glasses back on. I pick up the gilder’s tip. “So,” I say, more a resignation than an invitation. “What words have you brought to me?”

I make a good show of busying my hands again.

But the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention, hyperaware of this man’s presence in my space. There’s a difference between tossing out a power move and being deluded enough to fall under hubris’ spell. I have no plans for the latter.

I fight the primal urge to wrap my arm around my stomach to protect it from his attention.