Page 13 of Tainted Empire
As Mr. Orlov leaves the hall, promising to make all the necessary arrangements, I stand alone on the stage, my heart still heavy but now carrying a flicker of hope. The solo performance will be more than just a return to music; it will be a step towards healing, a way to honor the memory of my unborn child, and perhaps, a way to start rebuilding myself.
Chapter 9
Mikhail
The moment I step into the penthouse after a grueling month in Moscow, the stark contrast between the icy Russian streets and the quiet luxury of my Manhattan home hits me hard. The city’s skyline, usually a sight that stirs a sense of dominion within me, now seems like a distant, indifferent observer of my turmoil.
Moscow was a whirlwind of Bratva business and relentless digging into that fucked-up night—the night I lost control, the night I nearly destroyed everything.
The death of the restaurant owner, the conveniently erased footage from the restaurant—it’s all been a maze of dead ends and frustrating leads. I’m mentally and physically exhausted, but there’s no rest for the weary, not in my world.
The silence is deafening and for a moment, I stand there, taking it all in. The familiar yet now alien surroundings serve as a sharp reminder of the gaping void in my life.
Then, as I enter the bedroom, her scent hits me. Gabriette’s perfume – that fucking haunting fragrance that’s been imprinted in my brain. It’s a glimmer of her, a ghost that stirs a blend of hope and agony in my chest.
“Gabriette?” I call out, my voice echoing in the hollow room. But there’s no answer, just the echo of my own wishful thinking bouncing off the walls.
I can’t help myself. I move through the room like a fucking madman, searching every corner. “Gabriette!” I shout, my voice growing more desperate, fueled by the irrational hope that she might be here, that she might have come back to me.
The bathroom, the walk-in closet—they’re all empty, echoing chambers of my solitude. The realization that she’s not here, that her scent is just a lingering ghost of her presence, is a brutal reminder of the chasm between us.
She must have been here, but she’s gone, and the perfume is just a cruel fucking reminder of what I’ve lost.
I stand there, in the middle of our room, a sense of despair washing over me. It’s like a goddamn twist of the knife in my already bleeding heart.
I’m about to storm out, every muscle in my body coiled with tension and unspent anger, when I spot it – an envelope on the dresser. My hands tremble as I pick it up, recognizing the elegant, familiar script immediately.
Inside is an invitation to her solo performance at the philharmonic.
She’s moving on, stepping back into the world, back into her music, and I’m just a fucking memory. My hands tremble slightly as I close the envelope; the reality that Gabriette is moving forward without me, is both heartening and heart-wrenching.
I sit down on the edge of the bed, the card in my hands. This is Gabriette reclaiming a part of herself, a part I had come to love and admire deeply. The thought of her on stage, pouring her soul into her music, stirs a mix of pride and profound sadness within me.
But… she wants me to be there for this. That must mean something, right?
I realize then, in the quiet of our bedroom, that no matter how far I travel, no matter how deep I bury myself in Bratva affairs, I can’t escape the truth of my feelings.
Gabriette is still a part of me, a part I pushed away in a moment of blind rage and pain.
Sitting there, with the scent of her perfume still lingering in the air, I make a decision. I will go to her performance. I need to see her, to witness the strength and passion that I fell in love with, even if it’s from a distance.
It’s not about redemption, forgiveness or rekindling anything; it’s about acknowledging the woman she is, the woman she’s becoming without me.
I need to feel close to her, so I walk into her music room, the place where she brings her soul to life through her cello.
And there it is – one of her cellos is missing. So she was here, probably not long before I arrived, filling this room with the melodies that I once loved to listen to.
The realization hits me hard, like a punch to the gut.
I sink to the floor, my heart aching with a pain that’s all too familiar. The room, with its high ceilings and rows of music scores, feels like a cathedral of my failures. The absence of her cello is a glaring reminder of her absence in my life, a void that seems to grow with every passing second.
I sit there, on the cold floor, my mind racing. I need to prove myself worthy of her again, not just to win her back but to become the man she deserves, the man I once promised her I would be. It’s about earning her trust, her respect, and maybe, in time, her love again.
After noticing the missing cello, a sharp ache tightens in my chest. The absence of that single instrument in the room feels like a glaring void. But then, an idea strikes me – the surveillance cameras.
On impulse, driven by a desperate need to see her, any part of her, I pull out my cell phone and access the penthouse’s surveillance system. My fingers move swiftly, a familiar dance of tapping and scrolling as I pull up the feed. I need to see her, even if it’s just her ghost moving through these digital frames.
The footage from the elevator appears first and there she is — my reason for fucking breathing.