Page 131 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

“Let your daughter run it.”

“She’s five,” I object, folding my arms. “I’ll hire my wife an assistant.”

I don’t want my daughter anywhere near social media.

“I… I don’t know.” Sandrine steps back, looking overwhelmed.

“Artists are sharks. You have to keep moving, or you die.” Nell steps toward Sandrine, showing both power and persuasion. “You’re back from the dead. Don’t die on us again. I’ll leave this packet on your desk out front. My card is inside. Reach out to me with any questions. No pressure, but I’m holding the spot for you. I don’t want anyone else.”

Nell leaves with a nod to me, which I return.

When she’s gone, Sandrine wanders deeper into the studio. “Kirill! What did you do?”

This is a place that belongs to her. Only her. Not even me.

“This is your building.” I kiss her hand. “It belongs to you. Only you. It’s in your name. I had always planned to build you a studio of your own. I just never got the chance.” My voice cracks, and I cover it up.

“Kirill…” She breathes.

I guide her farther inside. “Come look.”

Windows show a narrow branch of the river rushing between stone embankments. Downstream, water churns through an old concrete spillway, creating a steady roar that drowns out the sounds of the city. Sounds that Sandrine can no longer separate in her head.

Even though it’s far from Iron Keep. She has guards, and I’ve installed security cameras that cost more than most people’s houses.

With freshly milled wooden floors, the whole space is drenched in sunlight from the pitched glass cathedral ceiling above, with massive industrial beams. Shelves line a brick wall to the left, filled with matching ceramic containers overflowing with brushes, painter’s tools, oils, and turpentine. Below that are sketchbooks, pencils, charcoal, and colored wax sticks.

Empty canvases of different sizes sit on several easels. Rows of other blank ones are on the shelves. All to be used at her whim. One splash of paint to test, or a full-on masterpiece.

I watch my wife walk slowly toward one canvas, her fingertips hovering above the paint but not touching.

I move closer behind her. “You said years ago your own studio would make you look more professional.”

“I was only nineteen, you must have laughed at me.” She holds her coat closed.

“No.” I grip her shoulders. “Never.”

Her eyes shine as she looks around again. “Kirill… I don’t deserve this.”

“Yes, you do.”

I have to accept that perhaps Sandrine had a moment of weakness from all the stress of being a young mother and went home to her father for a rest, a break.

She might have needed a shoulder to cry on because she didn’t think I would be sympathetic to her emotional issues at the time. Perhaps the real her was dying inside, and I didn’t see it. And because of my failure to recognize her needs, everything died.

This is the real her again. I recognize it. I smell it on her skin.

“And look…” I bring her to another wall of Violet’s finger paintings framed in an uneven pattern. “I collected all the ones with your signature color.”

“She’s my mini-me,” Sandrine coos. “Even though she looks more like you.”

“I see you in so much of her.” And I don’t say how it bothered me for so many years.

Now it adds to the joy of Sandrine being home. My daughter has her mother. And I have my wife.

She hurls herself at me and throws her arms around my neck. “Thank you.”

My hands slide to her waist, pulling her in. “For what?”