Page 93 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

I leave before the guilt about lying has time to creep in. That doesn’t mean I regret it one bit. After seeing Mom like this, it’s clear I’ve made the right choice.

Not that I’ve been doubting it otherwise. Although being with Gavril has been uncomfortable and weird at times, it’s been fun, even pleasurable, too.

Getting back to the mansion is a bit strange. I call up the number Gavril gave me and the luxury sedan pulls up within minutes. The driver, wearing a peaked cap and everything, hurries around to open my door for me.

As we pull out, I count up seventeen floors and try to spot my mother’s apartment. I smile softly when I see it—it’s the balcony bursting with plants.

And somewhere inside there, she’s sleeping—soundly, safely, happily.

My heart twinges with love.

I did this for her.

Right now, it feels like it was worth it.

* * *

It seems I’ve barely stepped foot in the door of the mansion when Chowder stampedes up jubilantly and Gavril arrives just behind him. He’s wearing a deep purple shirt that shows off his powerful shoulders. I find myself swallowing nervously.

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” he says, taking out a red silk blindfold.

I raise my brows, then lower my voice. “If this is some kinky sex thing, let’s not pretend it’s just for me.”

“You’ll see,” is all he says.

He puts on the blindfold and leads me with his hand on the small of my back and an ease that makes me tremble.

But instead of us continuing down the hallway on to the left, the way I know our bedrooms are, Gavril leads me straight for a while, then to the right, then …

“Here we are,” he says, and takes off the blindfold.

Oh.

It’s … familiar. Different.

“Beautiful,” I breathe.

It’s the art studio from before—but rearranged, improved, and fully stocked with more paints, more canvases.

“Is this for … me?” I search Gavril’s face, looking for the catch. I don’t find any.

Gavril only nods, sweeping his hands forward. “I’ll leave you to it.”

And then he leaves without another word.

It takes me a few seconds of standing there for it to sink in: there is no catch. Gavril has no ulterior motive, other than seeing me happy.

Radioactive chains and snarling pit bulls couldn’t keep me away. I run to the loot.

I want to try the Old Holland oil paints. The Winsor & Newton acrylics. The Sennelier watercolors. All of it! Now! It’s a shame that I have only two hands and one canvas at a time.

So, I grudgingly settle on the Old Holland oil paints on a canvas pad, and start setting up. Even the setup is meditative for me: the pouring out of the paints onto the palette, the dipping of the paintbrush in the water, dabbing it mostly dry.

I start painting. Reds and blacks and hard slashes of color.

I try not to let the encroaching thoughts in … that these aren’t my usual colors of choice, that this isn’t my usual uplifting scene … to get into the flow of art.

This, more than anything, is what I love about it most of all, after all. Losing myself in a project. Time, space, everything blurring away into pure creation. Practically speaking, too much thought strangles my creativity.

---