Page 18 of The Bratva's Forbidden Pregnancy

The walls were lined with captivating portraits: a diverse array of incredible art pieces that had me enthralled. I was impressed by the paintings that I saw, and I wasn’t one to be so easily impressed. This artist was good. The oil paintings and contemporary sculptures seemed carefully displayed to draw my eye.

Under the high ceilings and moldings that soared above, I made my way through the crowd of people dressed to impress, their conversations a low hum that filled the space, blending with a mix of different colognes and perfumes.

“These are amazing,” Simon said, admiring some pieces as he walked beside me.

“The artist, Caspian Nightingale, is really talented,” Fyodor said, “He always adds a touch of excellence to his work, making his pieces…unique.”

“I can see that,” I replied, accepting a glass of champagne from a waitstaff’s tray.

Simon helped himself to a piece of hors d’oeuvre from the same tray.

“Come on, there’s a couple of people I’d like you to meet,” Fyodor said, leading the way to a small group of impeccably dressed men—our associates.

We followed.

“Gentlemen,” he greeted, adjusting his tie as we halted before them.

“My, oh my, look who it is,” one of them said, his eyes fixed on me.

The old man seemed absorbed by my presence; in fact, the smirk on his face couldn’t be any more subtle.

“Vladimir Wolkov himself, in the flesh.” He chuckled.

I squinted, and before I could even think, he added. “Oh, come on, don’t be so surprised; your reputation precedes you.” He shook my hand, adding, “Bradley Finch is the name.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

He chuckled. “No, that pleasure’s all mine.”

“You have a famous name among the brotherhood, Mr. Wolkov,” another said, offering his hand.

I shook it with a nod.

It was no news that my name had spread like wildfire in the criminal underworld, even here in New York.

We talked for the next few minutes; actually, they talked, and I listened. Mr. Finch wouldn’t stop praising me, saying he loved the way I handled my business. He was a lively one, throwing jokes here and there, but in time, I got bored.

However, while standing with these men, something caught my eye, stealing my attention. It was an artwork hanging on the wall in front of me. The piece was so fascinating—dark and agonizing yet beautifully made.

My gaze was captivated by this hauntingly amazing piece, reminiscent of Edgar Degas’ impressionist style.

Although it was Caspian Nightingale’s original work, it reminded me a lot about Degas’ “Echoes of the Night.” Maybe he drew inspiration from the deceased artist.

“Whispers in the Dark” was the name of this painting—I saw it written at the base of the portrait—and before I knew it, I was standing before it, enamored by the artist’s precision and skill.

The painting was a mesmerizing oil on canvas piece, evoking the mystique of a moonlit night with thousands of stars twinkling in the sky. A series of soft, feathery brush strokes danced across the canvas, enveloping a lone figure that seemed to be drowning in a sea of despair. Within the darkness of the woods, painted to reality, a hand stretched out, conjuring whispers of secrets shared beneath the stars. Shadows twirled and writhed, like dark tendrils of vines, as a streak of smoke surrounded the figure, the gender of which was artistically concealed.

I took a sip of my champagne, eyes glued to this masterpiece that had drawn me to it, a piece I felt so connected to, like it whispered secrets that only I could hear. In a strange way, I saw myself in that portrait, and the story hidden in it was one filled with darkness and loneliness. There was also a glint of hatred, anger with a touch of violence and betrayal.

As I studied the painting, I noticed, at a small distance, another enthusiast looking at the piece with the same passion as I was.

That instant, we locked eyes with each other.

Peering closely at the enthusiast, I immediately recognized those sharp green eyes and that heart-shaped face. I had met her only once in Russia, but I was certain it was her.

How could I not recognize the only girl who had been running through my mind for a while now?

It was Sienna Summers.

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