Mikhail
The melodic sounds of violins and cellos weave through the air, and my gaze takes in the priceless works of art adorning the gallery walls.
I'm captivated by the intense emotion on the faces of the figures portrayed by Delacroix. Each brushstroke is a testament to the passion and conviction of the period. I can practically hear the cries of revolution as Liberté leads the people through the streets of Paris.
But Zhanna's soft words compete with the masterpiece. Her hand is on Maria's thigh; her gentle touch is insistent. As are the words she says—just loud enough for me to hear.
Among the illustrious guests, I see several familiar faces—all influential members of the Bratva, their cold gazes continually assessing each other. I nod politely to Anatoli Popov, and he returns the g
