Page 129 of Filthy Little Fix
Svetlana immediately separates from us, approached by an older man with a monocle. Tacky. Dmitry would be in his element here, floating between groups, speaking his six languages (with Greek). Dante, I expect, will find the nearest bar and stand there, looking menacing, until it's time to leave.
I'm wrong.
A short, bald man in a shiny suit, the museum's curator, approaches us with a wide smile. "Mr. Volkov! What a pleasure to have you as our patron this year. The Greek and Roman wing has never looked so magnificent, thanks to your generosity."
Dante nods. "Thank you for having us, Albert."
Albert then looks at me (for a little longer than necessary). He has such a cute smile that I genuinely think he doesn't know he's talking to two mobsters.
"And who is this young man with you?"
Dante places a possessive hand on the small of my back, guiding me a step forward. "This is Leonel Hays. He's the brains behind our digital security."
Albert becomes more interested. I follow my orders. I extend my hand and smile. "A pleasure, Mr. Albert."
The handshake is firm. Etiquette lessons.
"Digital security! How fascinating," says Albert, his smile widening. "It must be a constant challenge to keep the Volkovs'...treasuressafe in today's world, mustn't it, Mr. Hays?"
I maintain eye contact. "The digital world is a battlefield, indeed."
"Ah, I hope you also enjoy art." Albert gestures to a nearby sculpture—a marble bust of a Roman emperor with a time-worn face. "Look, boys—thanks to donations from supporters like you, we were able to repatriate this Marcus Aurelius from a private collection of an oil baron in Monaco. A remarkable piece, don't you think?"
Dante approaches the statue. I follow him, a step behind. He examines it with a critical eye I didn't expect.
"A shame the original patina was compromised. This piece was looted from a villa near Herculaneum during the Second World War, wasn't it? It passed through two private collections before being 'recovered'."
Albert looks ridiculously happy. Apparently, Dante is the first person to know this in this room full of pseudo-intellectuals.I'm looking at you, Svetlana.
"Exactly, Mr. Volkov! Your erudition is remarkable," he exclaims, his cheeks flushed.A very erudite man.
I have no idea how Dante knows what he knows. After that, I just watch, a little out of my element, as Dante speaks with great authority about…art.
He talks about the Elgin Marbles. He knows an amphora is from the Transitional Period by the way the warrior holds the spear. I try to connect the dots. The image of the brute who trains Krav Maga and breaks bones doesn't align with the man who debates the provenance of Roman artifacts. It's fascinating. Andinfuriating. Every time I think I've understood him, that I've put him in a box—the brute, the Don, the monster, the lover—he kicks the side of the box out and shows me a new room I didn't know existed. He's a labyrinth. And I'm hopelessly lost in it.
Oh, Sveta. He's not the brute you think he is.
When Albert finally moves away, floating on his own cloud of curatorial bliss, a waiter glides towards us with a tray of champagne flutes. I take one. My hand automatically grips the thin stem, not the bowl. I'm hallucinating Svetlana's voice.Remember the lesson, Leonel. Don't warm the drink. Violence disguised as courtesy.
I lean towards Dante, who takes a glass for himself. He holds it by the stem with great familiarity. Of course.
"All this shit," I whisper, low enough for only him to hear. "The rules, the fake smiles. It's exhausting. It's all a lie."
I raise the glass to my lips, but Dante's hand stops my wrist midway.
I watch him. He watches the hall. He watches the waiter who served us, sees who else took a drink from the same tray. He brings his own glass to his nose, as if breathing the notes of whatever is in this glass. He looks at the liquid, searching for any sediment or discoloration. He waits for other guests to drink from glasses from the same tray, waits to see if anyone will drop dead.
He meets my eyes and gives a minimal nod.It's clean.
He releases my wrist. His protection is as automatic as his violence.
"Of course it's a lie. It's a game." He looks me up and down. "And you're beautiful. Use it."
The heat that rises up my neck is humiliating.
He had never said anything about my appearance before. Never. He's called me a freak, a curse, a whore, a disgrace, and I must be forgetting something, but 'beautiful' is definitely not on that list. My apathy shatters.
"You think I'm beautiful, mister?"
