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She's better protected, even if that protection comes with her hatred.

* * *

The following day, I converse with my mother via speakerphone while standing at my office window. I toss a baseball from hand to hand, contemplating what it would be like to manage my chaotic thoughts with the precision of the Texas Rangers—no panic, no extraneous noise, just calm, methodical execution like their finest performances.

"Sienna has forwarded a digital image of the portrait. She applied the finishing touches last night. She's made you seem very..."

My mother pauses. I mentally supply the descriptors.

Sinister. Angry.Predatory.

"Youthful," Mother concludes, surprising me. “She gave you a roguish sort of smile and a certain light in your eyes—perhaps that's how she perceives you, hmm?"

"Mother, you need to abandon this matchmaking endeavor."

"She'sthe one who interpreted you that way."

"I mean it. It's finished."

"Why are you determined to spoil my fun?"

I toss the baseball hard. "Yesterday, Sienna told me something devastating about her mother. Without divulging specifics, let's just say she lost a family member during the war."

Mother gasps but remains silent. She won't discuss the Bratva-mob conflict openly on the phone. But we both know how much people lost. We both recognize it provides people with legitimate reasons to despise organized crime—as if additional justification were needed.

But I'm different, aren't I? Better than Father, than Luka.

"People are complicated," Mother says after a long pause.

"This isn't. Her hatred for..." The mob. Us. "And I don't fault her for it."

"But certain situations are nuances," Mother counters.

"Why does this matter so much? You said yourself the portrait is good."

"It exceeds mere quality. It's... aspirational. Artist's dream of producing work of this caliber, and she accomplished it within an afternoon and evening."

"Is she truly that gifted?" I inquire.

"She strikes me as someone who has invested far beyond their ten thousand hours. I want her to create more."

"She informed me she’s too busy for additional commissions. You have to let it go."

"I can’t," Mother insists. "This started as a little matchmaking project, but Nico, it has transformed into something else entirely. I believe I've discovered genuine talent. I believe I've discovered... the one."

I groan, throwing the ball with increased intensity. My palm throbs. "The gallery."

"Mydreamgallery," she confirms.

She's always dreamed of opening a gallery of her own. But she never found 'the one'—the perfect artist with the ideal vision to headline the grand opening. She nurtures numerous such aspirations: a gallery, a fashion exhibition, mastering Russian to 'experience the great novels in their original form.' At least the latter ambition resulted in our mutual fluency before our encounters with the Bratva.

"I'll commission portraits of our family, my associates, objects, sources of inspiration... perhaps one or two additional renderings of you."

"Mother—"

"Perhaps," she interjects. "But she'll have abundant projects, so it might not occur for some time."

"She might decline altogether," I point out.