Dirty Passions An Interracial Russian Mafia Romance (The Lion and The Mouse #5) - Kenya Wright Page 0,111

I don’t act accordingly, when she’s threatened.”

“You’ve put yourself in this situation.” Kaz squeezed my hand and guided us away. “Forty-eight hours, Butcher. Get it done and then get the fuck out of my city.”

Chapter 26

Demons and Angels

Kazimir

Where will all of this take us? What should we learn about this moment? This battle with the French and all our hidden enemies?

Emily and I went back to the office in our penthouse.

It was an oddly decorated space.

Some parts appeared normal. Grey paint covered the walls. There were two floor-to-ceiling windows that gave breathtaking views of the Golden Mile in different directions. The black desk displayed an uncluttered glass surface. There was a simple, fully stocked bar in the corner finished in mahogany. It included a beautiful granite top, decorative panels, glass stemware holders, storage shelving, and a small fridge.

What made the room appear strange was the chairs and bookcase. Both chairs were dark mahogany—wood as deep and dark as blood. Meanwhile, someone had carved cherubs into the chairs’ sides. Plush violet cushions provided us with comfort. The bookshelf was simple shelf typology but with a twist. Chic and contemporary. It was clearly inspired by DNA. The stylish structure represented the shape of a double helix, twisting around. Each packed section served as a metaphorical statement on how the books one places on their shelf defines a significant part of their personal identity. In some ways, many people’s bookshelves showcase their DNA.

Emily sat in her violet and mahogany cherub chair. Harlem lounged on her lap as if that was his proper place in the world.

I walked over to the odd bookcase for a closer look. Books were stacked in neat rows. All orderly arranged and aligned. Back-to-back. Placed so that the insides could not be judged by the covers.

I saw Tolstoy’s top novels—War and Peace, Resurrection, and Anna Karenina. Further along, I spotted other Russian classics Dr. Zhivago, Crime and Punishment, A Hero of Out Time, and the Funeral Party. Each book held its own world of wonders and thought it had answers to lifelong questions about humanity.

My mother had made me read these works. Fiction-writing in Russia had always been serious business. In a society without freedom, writers served as the truth-tellers. The voice of the voiceless. The conscience of a nation. The capacity to engage readers in deep, personal reflection about life.

Emily’s soft voice sounded behind me. “What are you doing?”

“Wishing I could escape with you, grab your hand, open book, jump inside, and get lost in another world.” I turned away from the shelf and walked over to the only art hanging in the room. It was a print of the famous work.

It showed a demon sitting atop a mountain. A scarlet sunset occurred behind him. His flexed musculature and wrought hands contrasted with his slumped body. He had a sad facial expression—one that suggested the creature was desperate for love. His body displayed a competing view. Masculine and feminine. Long hair yet Muscular frame.

I continued to stare. “Do you know what this painting is?”

“It’s called The Demon Seated, but I don’t remember the name of the artist.”

“Mikhail Vrubel.”

“Yes, that’s his name,” Emily said. “What I do remember is that Vrubel had a unique style that we can’t truly see with the print. He created an effect of crystal edges, which made his paintings look like stained glasses or panels.”

“How do you think he did it?”

“He did plain strokes with a painting knife, instead of a brush. Sometimes you have to use a different approach to get a different effect.”

“It’s what we will be doing with Rolan. Asking things that I know he won’t want to discuss.”

“Do you think Rolan will be embarrassed about the picture?”

“I hope so.” I massaged the back of my neck, pushing away the constant strain that this week had brought it. “If Rolan isn’t embarrassed about that picture, then it will change how I see him—everything I know about him.”

Movement sounded.

Then, Emily stood by my side.

Harlem trotted over to my feet and sniffed at my leg.

Emily studied the painting. “This piece was harshly criticized during his time.”

“Like many works are.”

“But it took him into a higher realm of artistic expression.”

“Do you know the story behind this?” I turned to my mouse and gathered her in my arms.

She smiled. “No.”

“The Demon is from Mikhail Lermontov's poem.”

“I’ve never heard of that poet.”

“The poem talks about a demon that fell in love with a Georgian princess. Although he was a demon, he was romantic full of hope