The Devil on Kazoo

12: Kristonovich

She was a scared little girl then. Today, she was here on business.

She opened her eyes and lifted her chin.

The air of the chapel smelled stale and dusty. The sunlight never properly filtered through the broken stained glass, which left the sanctuary dim with scattered pieces of color reflecting off of the walls.

Syl skirted around the rows of wooden pews and went through a back door to a utility closet with broken instruments inside.

She moved a xylophone that was missing several pegs to the side, revealing a door behind it.

Mustering up her courage and tapping into her Russian roots, Syl knocked without hesitation.

A tall man opened the secret door, looking as if he'd been hung out to dry with the way his skin was shriveled and sunken.

Syl recognized him immediately, though the man showed no expression of the same.

"Gustav," Syl said, less like a greeting and more like a statement.

"The boss will see you now," Gustav replied.

It was strange to hear someone speaking to Syl in Russian, she was so used to it being the other way around.

Gustav led her into a grand office made of cedar and leather and rich red paint.

Syl's breath hitched involuntarily when her eyes landed on the man sitting in a chair behind a desk.

She remembered the auctions where she sold her paintings. She remembered her desperation. Her fear.

And then, like a knight in shining armor, came Antony Retorov.

He was a well-known businessman in London, owning seven of the largest clubs in England and two casinos in America. Everyone knew he was part of the Retorov Family Gang, but he was too rich to ever be caught.

Syl was only twelve when he offered her a job. To his credit, he never treated her badly, only unfairly. He hung threats over her head to keep her painting day and night, things like "it's either paint or sleep out in the cold", or "you'll never find work like this anywhere else. I am the one who makes your paintings valuable."

For too long, Syl thought Retorov produced the air she breathed and made the world turn around.

He was her captor and painting was her shackle.

Yet here he was in front of her again.

Retorov wore a pinstriped suit that accentuated his enormous biceps. To Syl, he looked more like a wrestler than a gang boss.

Upon seeing her, he only lifted an amused eyebrow. "Sylvette Kristonovich."

Syl bristled at her Russian name. "I take it you got my letter."

"Why do you think you're allowed to stand here?" Restorov waved his hand dismissively. "I always knew you would come back, Sylvette. It was only a matter of time. I must admit, I've missed the money my little painter used to bring me."

"I am not your malen'kiy khudozhnik anymore, Retorov. I have a painting. I want to sell it. Can we work together or not?"

Retorov gestured for her to come forward. "Let's see it."

Syl was hesitant to get any closer to the man, but eventually, she stood in front of him and unveiled the canvas.

Underneath was a painting she had been working on for weeks. She was supposed to sell it in town like she always did. But that was before she was desperate.