Page 86 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

“Do you like it, Mommy?” he asks, his big blue eyes shining.

“I love it,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

As we walk through the gallery, Andrei trails behind us, his usual smirk firmly in place. “I told him this was over the top,” he says, shaking his head.

“It’s perfect,” I reply, my voice firm.

Makar glances at Andrei, his expression cool. “I don’t remember asking for your opinion.”

Andrei shrugs, unbothered. “You never do.”

We reach the far end of the gallery, where a small plaque catches my eye. I lean closer, my breath catching as I read the inscription.

The Hannah Sharov Gallery: A Space for Art and Community.

My tears spill over as I turn to Makar, my voice trembling. “You named it after me?”

“Of course,” he says, his tone casual, though there’s a flicker of warmth in his eyes. “It’s yours.”

I clutch Anatoly tighter, my heart swelling as I glance between the two of them. Makar stands tall and steady, his usual stoicism softened by the faintest of smiles. In his arms, Anatoly chatters away about how he’s going to draw pictures to hang on the walls.

“I love you,” I say softly, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

Makar’s smirk fades into something gentler, and he steps closer, bending slightly to press a kiss to my forehead. “I love you too,” he murmurs.

Makar’s kiss lingers on my forehead, and when he pulls back, his blue eyes meet mine with a softness I’m still not used to. “Show me your work,” he says simply, his voice low but insistent.

My heart skips, a flicker of nervousness stirring in my chest. “You’ve seen it before,” I reply, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Not like this,” he counters, gesturing to the room around us. “Not the way you want the world to see it.”

His words settle over me, both grounding and empowering. I take his hand, leading him toward the first painting displayed near the entrance. It’s one of my earlier works, a vibrant swirl of blues and golds that I created during a rare quiet moment in the early days of our marriage.

“This one,” I say, my voice soft. “It’s about finding peace in chaos.”

Makar studies it for a moment, his hands tucked into his pockets. “I don’t know much about art,” he admits, glancing at me. “But I know I like this. It feels… strong.”

My cheeks warm, and I bite back a smile. “That’s a good interpretation.”

He smirks faintly, his gaze returning to the painting. “Then you’re better at this than you give yourself credit for.”

We move through the gallery, stopping at each piece as I explain the story behind it. There’s a sketch of Anatoly, his chubby toddler cheeks captured in delicate lines, and a soft watercolor of a lavender field that reminds me of the nursery we prepared for our second baby.

“You made all of this while dealing with me and our son?” Makar asks, raising an eyebrow.

I laugh, nudging him lightly. “You’re not as difficult as you think.”

He chuckles, the sound low and rich, and something in his gaze shifts—pride mingling with affection.

Soon, the gallery begins to fill with people. Guests trickle in, their expressions curious and admiring as they wander through the space. I find myself caught in a whirlwind of compliments and questions, my nerves slowly melting away with each kind word.

“This is stunning,” one woman says, gesturing to a piece depicting a moonlit garden. “Are you selling it?”

The question catches me off guard, and I glance at Makar, who stands a few feet away, watching me closely.

“I’m not sure,” I admit, my fingers twisting nervously. “I haven’t thought about it.”

The woman nods, offering me a card. “If you decide to, please let me know. I’d love to have it.”

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