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“Printsessa, you alright?” I lean in and brush against her shoulder.
“It’s Mara Vezcovy’s exhibition.”
I nod. “Yes. I can see that.”
Her eyes widen even more, and she stares at me as if there’s something I missed. “No, you don’t understand. It’s Mara Vezcovy.”
“Yes, baby, I heard you the first time.”
“Lev, Mara Vezcovy is a world-renowned Italian artist known for her charcoal and graphite figure drawings. And… she’s my inspiration.” She places a hand to her heart. “I’ve been following her work since I was five. The last time I saw an exhibition of hers was over ten years ago. We were in Italy. My mother took me. We snuck away from my father and dragged my sister along. She hated art with a passion, whereas it was my passion. That was such a good day.”
“Well, look at that.” I smirk, admiring the fire in her eyes. It’s so rare to see such desire over something like this in my world. “Now, that’s what you call a good coincidence.”
“Yes. I can’t wait to see it.” She claps her hands, and I swear she just might sprout wings and fly into the gallery, but then the smile fades from her face, taking the excitement along with it. “Oh no, look, the exhibition is not until next week.”
I follow her gaze, confirming that the exhibition doesn’t start until next weekend.
If I were a regular guy, I’d tell her not to worry because I’ll just bring her back to see it. But I’m not a regular guy. In my world, when I want something, I make it happen if it’s within my reach and power.
“Come on.” I take Gabrielle’s hand, and we make our way to the supervisor at the desk.
“What are you doing, Lev?” Gabrielle glances up at me.
I cut her a glance. “You wanna see the exhibition, don’t you?”
“Yes. But it’s next week.”
“Not for us, printsessa.”
“But, Lev—”
I hold up my hand and shake my head. “No. Just follow me.”
“Alright.” She cuts me a nervous glance.
We reach the supervisor, who’s already zeroed in on us. He’s a balding man who looks to be in his fifties. A wary look washes over his face when he makes eye contact with me. He may not know who I am, but I know I look downright scary in public. I’m tall, Russian, and if you know your stuff, you’ll be able to tell the dagger wrapped in a serpent on my neck is a Bratva tattoo.
“Afternoon, sir,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady as he glances at my neck. Yep, he knows his stuff, alright.
“My wife would like to see the Mara Vezcovy exhibition.” I get straight to the point.
The man glances at Gabrielle, then carefully switches back to me. “Oh, I’m afraid it’s not open till next week.”
“We can see that.” I grin, giving him a cold chuckle. “But she’s here now.”
The man’s eyes widen, fear brimming in the dark hues, and he looks like he doesn’t know what the hell to say to me. Worried for his job. Worried for his safety. Let’s see which he values more.
“I’m afraid it’s gallery policy that our patrons wait for the dates advertised. We don’t allow anyone to see our exhibitions before the time.”
Job, then.
I tilt my head and look at his name tag.
Stuart.
He looks like a Stuart.
I don’t usually bother with names unless I’m going to do something with them. It’s never a good thing for someone like me to know your name. Most people have that innate awareness to know that, and they would usually give in to my demands by now.
