Heavy Crown by Sophie Lark
Sebastian
Ikeep taking Yelena out, more and more frequently.
She asks me to meet her places, probably because she doesn’t want me getting the third degree from her father any more than necessary. She tells me he knows that we’re dating. Which is a relief—this could blow up in my face spectacularly, if we were sneaking around behind his back.
Actually, it’s my family that’s in the dark more than hers.
I know Nero will think I’m out of my mind dating the daughter of the newest Bratva boss—especially when our past conflicts aren’t entirely smoothed over. But he’s too busy with the South Shore Development to notice.
As long as I keep handling my side of the family business, picking up the slack now that Dante’s gone, and taking care of anything my father doesn’t feel like doing, nobody pays much attention to what I do in my spare time.
That spare time is increasingly devoted to Yelena.
The more time I spend with her, the more I want.
I take her all over Chicago, showing her the city.
I take her to the Art Institute and the Cloud Gate sculpture in Millennium Park. We go shopping on the Magnificent Mile and visit the Lincoln Park Zoo. I offer to take her up to the 360 Observation Deck, knowing that she might decline since she’s not a fan of heights. But, buoyed by the success of our Ferris Wheel ride, Yelena agrees to go.
We take the elevator up 103 floors. When we step out, we’re faced with a wall of glass, with the entire city spread out beneath us. We’re so high up that it’s almost like being in an airplane instead of a building. I point out the parts of the city I recognize: the marinas, the river, the area of Lincoln Park we visited two days ago.
Yelena looks down on the city, her eyes wide.
“Everything here is so . . . grand,” she says. “It’s all on such a massive scale.”
“Does it make you feel tiny?” I ask her.
“It does . . . and it doesn’t. It makes me feel insignificant . . . but also like I could accomplish anything here. Like there’s no limit.”
“What would you do?” I ask her. “If you could do anything?”
“I don’t know . . .” she says, looking down at the spreading grid of streets and high rises. “I guess . . . I’d like to go to school for music. Not as a performer—for composition. I get these melodies playing in my head . . . I wish I was better at arranging them and setting them down.”
“I want to hear you play,” I tell her. I’ve been curious for a while.
Yelena flushes. “I told you, I haven’t practiced in a long time. There’s no piano in our new house.”
“There is at mine,” I say.
It was my mother’s, and it’s still upstairs in her music room. Nobody uses it anymore, except Aida on rare occasions. But I know my father would never get rid of it.
He’s not home today, surprisingly. Aida roped him into some dinner with Fergus and Imogen Griffin, and a bunch of people from the Chicago Literary Society. Maybe she thought he’d like it, since he’s one of the most well-read people I’ve ever met. Or maybe she was just desperate to get him out of the house and thought that was a good excuse.
Regardless of the reason, it means I can show Yelena my mother’s music room without having to make awkward introductions.
“You want to show me your house?” Yelena says.
“Yes.”
“Alright. But I want to stand in that glass box first,” she says.
The box in question is suspended from the side of the building, about 1300 feet in the air. The floor is completely transparent, as are the walls.
“You want to get in there?” I say, in surprise.
“Yes,” she says, firmly.
As we approach, I can see shivers running up and down her body. Her face is pale, and her lips are white.
I don’t want to try to talk her out of it, so I just take her arm instead, to help steady her steps.
She clings to my bicep, shuffling her feet along like she’s scared to even pick them up. Bit by bit, we go into the box until we’re entirely outside the Willis Tower, floating in the air with only a few inches of plexiglass between us and an endless drop.
Yelena looks like she might pass out. Her expression is equal parts horrified and fascinated.
“I don’t know why this scares me so much,” she says. “Logically, I know it’s safe—hundreds of people stand in here every day without falling. Still, my whole body is screaming at me.”
Her muscles are tight with tension. She forces herself to look down, even as a soot-gray swift soars by directly beneath our feet.
I can’t help but be impressed by her force of will. Her desire to push her own limits.
I usually do what comes naturally to me. I don’t often force myself to do the opposite of what I like.
At last, Yelena lets out a little sigh and says, “Alright, we can go now.”
She seems calm and relieved as we head back toward the elevator.
“Maybe you’re just a masochist,” I tease her.
“I could be,” Yelena says quietly. “Sometimes when you’re denied the usual pleasures . . . you find other ways to entertain your mind.”
She’s alluded to the fact that her home life hasn’t been happy, though she doesn’t often give me specifics. She much prefers to talk about her brother, who she adores, versus her father.
I want to learn everything about her, but she’s tricky—like a puzzle box where you have to line up every piece perfectly to get it to open up. Often, right when I think we’re getting closer to each other, she pulls away again.
I can tell it’s going to take a long time for her to truly trust me.
I drive Yelena back to my family’s house on Meyer Avenue. It’s a massive old Victorian mansion on a heavily wooded lot. The trees grow so thick all around that you can only see bits and pieces of the house as you approach. The parts you can see don’t look particularly impressive—the gables are sagging with age, and the wooden trim needs painting. The leaded windows look mysterious and dark, even in the daytime.
But to me, it’s the most beautiful old house imaginable. Every bit of it is home. I love the creaks and groans, the scent of the dusty drapes and the oiled wood floors.
I park on the street so I can take Yelena inside through the front door, instead of via the underground garage. We walk through the front garden, which is full of fragrant lilac bushes, black cherry trees, and boxelder maples. A stone bird bath reflects a circle of sky like a mirror.
The wooden steps are sagging, covered in blown lilac blossoms. As we crush them beneath our feet, that sweet scent rises up, warm and summery.
“Have you always lived here?” Yelena asks me.
“All my life. Until I moved on campus for school.”
“What was it like being at college?” Yelena asks me. “Just like in the movies?”
I consider. Before this month, I would have told you that was the happiest time in my life: surrounded by friends, famous at my school, playing a sport I loved, and barely paying attention to my classes. Parties every weekend and games I treated with the seriousness of an all-out war.
But now . . . it’s all starting to seem a little silly. I was a kid, playing a game. Reveling in the attention.
I think about all the high-fives and the pats on the back, and they don’t seem particularly valuable anymore.
Now I think that I’d prefer the approval of just one person . . . if it was the right person.
“Yeah, it was like in the movies,” I tell her. “Only the cafeteria food is even worse than you think.”
Yelena smiles. She’s already learned how much I love food.
“That must have been hard for you,” she says.
“It was. I almost wasted away.”
I unlock the front door. I still have my key. All the Gallo children have keys. This will always be our home, no matter where we go.
“No guard?” Yelena says in surprise.
“There’s an alarm system, and cameras,” I tell her. “But we don’t have live-in security.”
She frowns. “Your father lives here alone?”
“With our housekeeper.”
I call out for Greta, but she doesn’t answer. She’s probably grocery shopping—taking the opportunity to dawdle around to all her favorite shops while my father is out.
“Too bad,” I say. “I wanted you to meet her.”
Yelena still looks uncomfortable at our lack of security—probably because her father’s house is so closely guarded at all times. She might be right. When Dante and Nero were living here, it wasn’t a concern. But we do have plenty of old enemies who might still hold a grudge.
I take her through the main part of the house—the ancient sitting room, with its portraits of ancestors long dead. My father’s library, which is stuffed with every book he’s ever read.
Then I show her my old room, papered with posters signed by Kobe Bryant and John Stockton.
“What about Michael Jordan?” she says, raising an eyebrow at me. “Isn’t he from here?”
“No poster—but I do have one of his cards.”
I show her my 1987 Fleer basketball card, encased in Lucite.
“Are those worth a fortune now?” she asks me.
“Some are—not this one. But I thought it was pretty fucking cool when I was a kid.”
Most of my old furniture is still here, exactly as it used to be. Including my twin bed, which I used to sleep on with my feet hanging off the end. I feel like Yelena and I are both looking at the neatly-tucked-in covers pulled tightly across the mattress. A funny tension arises between us.
I’m thinking how that youthful version of myself would have died to see a girl this gorgeous in my bedroom.
I’m not sure what Yelena is thinking.
We’ve kissed on every one of our dates, but neither of us has pushed it further yet. I’m trying to be respectful of her strict family situation. Despite my discipline, every time I get near her, I’m dying to put my hands all over her.
To distract myself, I say, “Let me show you the music room.”
My mother’s music room is on the top floor of the house. It’s one of the prettiest and most sunlit spaces, with large colored-glass windows on three sides.
Her piano is a gorgeous Steinway—mahogany brown, the wood carved with scrolls and curlicues, flowers and vines. The room still smells faintly of her perfume and the papery scent of sheet music.
Yelena approaches the piano with an air of awe.
“It’s a beautiful instrument,” she says.
“We have it tuned every year,” I tell her. “So it should sound alright.”
She hesitates next to the plush leather bench, and I say, “Go ahead, sit down.”
Watching her slide into place gives me a chill.
The way that Yelena sits down, and the way Aida does, are completely different. Yelena sits with the same perfect upright posture my mother always had, with her lovely slim hands poised above the keys in exactly the same way.
They don’t look alike—my mother was dark-haired, and Yelena fair. But I can tell at once that Yelena is a skilled musician, much as she downplays it.
Her fingers gently press the keys, testing the sound. The notes ring out clean and clear, echoing around this corner space with its vaulted ceilings.
Yelena starts to play from memory.
Her hands move flawlessly across the keys, no stumbling or hesitation. There’s a flow to her playing, there’s feeling. Her eyes are closed, and I can almost watch the music pour directly from her brain, down her arms, through her fingers.
I’ve never heard the song before. It reminds me of a cool, rainy night, or of a person searching for something lost. As she plays, images rise up before my eyes and fade away again: light reflected on glass. Empty city streets. And the way my mother’s hands used to move smoothly like that, when playing the piano, or when tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.
I’m startled when Yelena stops, the song finished.
“What was that called?” I ask her.
“It’s called “Naval,” by Yann Tiersen,” she says.
Naval—Yann Tiersen (Spotify)
Naval—Yann Tiersen (Apple)
“What else do you want to hear?” she asks me.
“Play me something Russian,” I say.
Yelena starts to play something light and rapid, that somehow conjures the feeling of snowflakes swirling down, and maybe a music-box ballerina twirling slowly on a stand. It’s wistful and plaintive.
Once Upon a December—Emile Pandolfi (Spotify)
Once Upon a December—Emile Pandolfi (Apple)
“What’s that?” I ask her.
She laughs softly. “It’s not really Russian,” she says. “It’s from an old, animated movie—Anastasia. It’s about one of the Romanov daughters. In the movie, she survives the revolution, but she hits her head and loses her memory. Later she realizes she’s the missing princess and is reunited with some of her family.”
She plays the refrain of the song, very lightly.
“I loved that movie . . .” she says. “I thought how incredible it would be to find out you were a princess. To be plucked out of your old life, into a new one . . .”
In a way, Yelena is a princess. A mafia princess. But I know that’s not what she’s talking about.
“Is it a true story?” I ask her.
“No. She was shot along with the rest of her family, and her body was thrown down a mineshaft. It was confirmed with DNA testing not too long ago. That’s why real life isn’t a movie.”
Yelena stops playing. Her hands drop down into her lap.
“One more,” I ask her. “Play me something you wrote.”
Her cheeks flush pink. I think she’ll refuse. But after a moment, she lifts her hands again, delicately pressing her fingers to the piano keys.
Yelena’s song is the most beautiful of all. I don’t know anything about music, so I can’t describe why or how it has such an effect on me. It starts slowly, subtly. Then it builds and builds, with a pull like an undertow, dragging me under. The music swirls all around the room, filling every bit of space from floor to ceiling. It’s wild and haunting, melancholic but insistent. It’s something inside of her calling out to something inside of me, demanding that I listen. Demanding that I understand.
When she stops, I can’t tell if she’s been playing for a minute or an hour.
“That was incredible,” I say.
My words seem weak compared to what she just did. She expressed something powerful, and I can’t match it with a compliment.
All I can do is say, “I’m stunned, seriously. You wrote that?”
“Yes,” Yelena says with a shyness that I’ve never seen in her before. “You really liked it?”
“Of course I did.”
“My father says everything I play is depressing.”
“Well . . . I wasn’t going to say anything. But I’m starting to think your dad might be a bit of a dick.”
Yelena snorts out a laugh, from behind those slim, supremely talented fingers.
She fixes me with her gorgeous eyes, the color of the sky right before it darkens.
“He’s dangerous,” she tells me seriously. “Very dangerous, Sebastian. He has resentments. Ambitions.”
“I know what he is,” I tell her. “That’s why I didn’t call you that first week. I wanted to, believe me. But I know this isn’t exactly safe for either of us.”
She drops her eyes and bites the corner of her lip.
“If he’s alright with us dating, he can’t be that pissed,” I tell her. “Maybe we can bury all those past resentments. Move on, make some kind of a deal. After all, if my family can make peace with the Griffins . . .” I wince, thinking of the sound of my knee shattering. “If we can do that, then anybody can learn to get along.”
She doesn’t answer me right away, twisting her hands in her lap. She looks upset. Maybe she thinks I’m too optimistic, and her father is sure to lash out eventually.
“Hey,” I say, grabbing her chin and tilting her face up so she has to look at me. “Don’t worry about me. I told you, I can take care of myself. I can handle your father if I have to. I’ve been up against worse.”
She shakes her head. “There isn’t anyone worse,” she says.
To stop her worrying, I lean down and kiss her. Her mouth tastes as sweet as ever, even though we haven’t been eating funnel cake this time. Her lips are the fullest I’ve ever touched—it makes kissing her incredibly satisfying. I could do it for hours.
But god, I want to do so much more than that.
As we kiss, I can’t help letting my hands drift down her body.
She’s wearing a pale blue cotton sundress with buttons up the front. I let my fingertips trail down her long, slender throat, to the shelf of her collarbone, and then a little lower to the top swell of her breast. I feel her suck in a gasp of air as I touch the space between her breasts, which is exactly the width of my middle finger.
Without the piano, the room seems intensely silent. All I can hear is her breath, and my own heartbeat. Gently, I trace the shape of her breast, letting my fingers dip down the front of her dress.
She isn’t wearing a bra. My thumb passes over her nipple, which is stiff, standing out against the thin material. Yelena lets out a little moan.
I can’t stop.
I drop to my knees in front of her, so she’s seated on the piano bench and I’m kneeling on the hard wooden floor. I unbutton the top three buttons of her dress, letting those beautiful breasts spill out.
Her tits are creamy white, tear-drop shaped, with tan-colored nipples. I take them in my hands and Yelena moans, pressing her breasts hard against my palms. I can tell she’s incredibly sensitive.
I take her breast in my mouth and I start to suck. Yelena moans again, grabbing my head and pressing my mouth harder against her chest.
“Oh my god,” she groans. “Don’t stop.”
I go back and forth between her breasts, sucking one nipple and caressing the other with my hand, then switching places, until her nipples are swollen and throbbing, and her pale breasts are flushed pink.
Yelena throws her head back, arching her back to present her breast to me more readily, groaning with pleasure.
I know she must be soaking wet. Kneeling between her thighs, I can smell the sweet, musky scent of her pussy. It makes me salivate.
I hadn’t planned to take this further—not just yet. But I can’t hold back any longer. I shove her thighs apart and push her skirt up. She is wearing panties—white cotton. I pull the crotch to the side, revealing a shell-pink pussy, gleaming wet.
I can’t resist it. I bury my face between her legs, inhaling that intoxicating scent. It turns me into an animal. I have to lick and rub my face in that sweet cunt, I need to taste her, touch her, make her scream.
“Oh! Oh!” Yelena gasps, thrusting her hands into my hair. She doesn’t have to urge me on—I’m eating her pussy like a starving man. I’m pushing my tongue all the way inside of her, then gently sucking on her clit.
While I’m doing that, I reach up to caress those breasts again.
Yelena can barely stand the combination of the two. She tries to hold back her cries, but it’s impossible. She’s writhing and grinding on my face, while I keep hold of both breasts, squeezing and tugging on her nipples, massaging the whole breast and then pulling my fingers all the way down to the tip.
Her thighs are resting on my shoulders and she’s squeezing around my head, her clit grinding back and forth on my tongue. She’s breathing faster and harder, crying out, “Pozhaluysta!”
She gives one last convulsive clench of her thighs, her back arched and her entire body taut and shaking. I squeeze her nipples hard, heightening the intensity and pleasure for as long as I can.
Then, at last, Yelena relaxes, her face flushed and her skin glowing warm.
“Ohhh, what are you doing to me . . .” she groans.
“I need you,” I tell her. “I need more of you. I can’t wait any longer.”
* * *
