Page 45 of Sold to the Bratva
“I don’t want to mess this up.”
“You won’t.”
I huff softly, my emotions getting the better of me.
“I don’t think I can stay here,” I say as adrenaline finally pushes me out of bed.
“Katya,” Evie warns, but I don’t listen. I don’t want to.
Evie keeps talking as I pace the bedroom, shoving jeans, leggings, and oversized sweaters into my battered canvas duffel.
“I get that you need space, Kat, but don’t disappear. That man will burn down half the city trying to find you.”
“I just need time,” I whisper.
“You don’t have time, honey. You’re already in it. This is the time.”
I pause in the doorway, fingers white-knuckling the strap of my bag.
“I’m not leaving forever. I just need to remember who I was before all of this.”
Evie exhales. “Where are you going?”
“To a place where no one expects anything from me.”
She doesn’t push. She just says, “Call me when you get there.”
I don’t answer. I hang up before she can convince me to stay.
I slip out through the side hallway near the library, the one no one ever uses. Maude hums something old and familiar in the kitchen. No one sees me go.
I take the car myself this time. No driver, no explanations. I head straight to the only place that has ever felt like mine.
The old studio I used to rent sits above a used bookstore off Lafayette Street. I haven’t stepped inside since before the wedding, before my life was dictated by alliances and gold-plated promises, and I’m relieved when the key still turns. The lock clicks open, and the familiar scent of oil paint, turpentine, and sun-soaked canvas hits me like a memory.
It’s dusty, cramped, and half-covered in old drop cloths and stiff brushes I never cleaned properly, but it’s mine. The windows are tall and cracked just enough to let the cold in. There’s a wooden easel in the corner, warped slightly from use. My stool, splattered with years of forgotten color. A tiny sink that still leaks and a space heater that works when it feels like it.
It’s perfect.
I drop my bag by the door, cross the room, and drag a blank canvas from the stack against the far wall. My fingers itch to make something, not because I know what to say, but because I need to saysomething.
I mix paint in silence, letting the rhythm soothe the chaos in my chest.
Red. Ochre. A smear of blue I can’t name.
Time unravels. Hours slide past as I layer paint, hurling grief, panic, and bone-deep confusion across linen and wood. It doesn’t have to be pretty, it only has to be honest.
And for the first time in days, I feel like I can breathe.
I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know if I’m ready to be a mother, a wife, or whatever version of myself Isaac seems to believe in so completely. But here, surrounded by chipped brushes and forgotten color, I remember what it felt like to be Katya before all this. The girl who got paint under her nails and stayed up all night chasing inspiration. The girl who wanted more. Who still does.
My back aches, my eyes burn, and I haven’t eaten since breakfast, but I don’t care. For the first time since that hospital room, I feel as if I’ve taken something back. I don’t know how long I’ll stay. I only know I needed to come, and I’m not ready to go home yet.
But I should have known better. My choices never come without consequence.
The paint still stains my hands when the floorboards creak. At first, I think it’s just the old loft groaning the way it always has. But then a shadow passes the cracked window, followed by the unmistakable metallic click of a gun being cocked.
My blood turns to ice.
