Chapter 3: Wicked Fame: Chapter 3

I grab a fistful of Luca’s collar and jerk him forward. The snap of violence echoes inside the windowless cell. Ricardo—the soldier who transported him here in his car trunk—jabs his ribs. The hostage’s pained cry twists through the air.

“Who did you sell it to?” I demand, fingers tightening around the soft fabric of Luca Morelli’s shirt. That’s a dead giveaway, by the way—the high-quality material. A mid-level mafia office guy doesn’t make enough to afford something so fine. His clothes were the first thing that made me suspicious enough to get my men to start tailing him. When men like him start to fatten their wallets, they tend to lose their common sense and splurge to make themselves feel like they’re bigshots.

“I can’t tell you.”

I shake his head, the violent impulses inside me itching to break free. “You’ll have to spill eventually. The only choice you have is whether it’ll be while all your teeth are still attached to your jaw.”

Luca blinks, his irises swimming up and down the whites of his eyes. I swing my head in a decisive nod.

The blood from before has dried between Luca’s dark beard but a fresh stream spills when Ricardo slams his fist into his jaw, dislodging a few teeth. Ricardo is one of my best soldiers, very good with his fists. He has been loyal to the Don for more than ten years now.

Luca screams in agony, but he’s a tough bitch. He doesn’t break easily.

“You know what happens to rats, Luca.” I whistle, reaching for the pliers. We’re getting to my favorite part now. The part where I remind people exactly why it’s a terrible idea to waste my time.

As his gaze flicks to the metal in my hand, the muscles on his neck stiffen, protruding through his tanned skin.

“Kill me,” he pleads.

I grab a handful of his hair and jerk his sorry head backward. “Did you forget my name?”

“Torture Demon.”

“Correct. This is my favorite part of the job. So don’t expect me to show any mercy.”

He flinches when the cool bite of metal pinches around his nail. The first time is always the hardest. And it’s when they break the easiest. Men are surprisingly vain about their nails.

“They’re from the Russian Bratva.” He exhales, sweat pricking his forehead. “And they pay better money.”

“Names, Luca.” I twist the handle, letting him feel the agony of having his nails pulled out from his flesh.

Before I can follow through fully, a knock on the door interrupts me. Nico, the underboss’s voice filters through.

“The Don wants to speak to you,” he says.

“Tell him I’m busy,” I snap.

“Won’t take long.”

With a grunt, I drop the pliers. They clank on the cement floor. Distractions are bad for getting confessions. They allow the victim a chance to mentally regroup and think up a new strategy.

“Ricardo, keep pressing him,” I whisper in the ear of my subordinate before striding out.

Nico is already out of sight so I trudge up the stairs all alone. The heartless bastard. He should at least accompany me after disrupting me in the middle of my job.

At the top of the stairs is a living room which is grandly furnished compared to the underground cells and interrogation chambers we use to torture prisoners and traitors. Chestnut leather sofas and glass-top coffee tables are arranged across the expansive space. A whole collection of alcohol bottles is strewn on top of those tables.

The Don is leaning back against the back of an armchair. My chest immediately softens at the old man’s face. Angelo Russo is the boss of the Russo Family, but at sixty-five, with excess fat weighing down his short, heavyset frame, a crooked back, and thinning hair, you couldn’t differentiate him from one of the oldies in the care home two blocks down. He’s not a scary Don anymore. But he’s still a powerful man and he knows it.

“Have you been well? Sorry, I missed today’s meeting.” I say.

He nods.

A large bottle of whiskey rests at his elbow. He has been getting really friendly with some of the men on Billionaire’s Row lately. I guess more money for him means more money for everyone.

Most boys think of their father as their hero.

Angelo Russo is my hero.

Even though I’ve seen him do unspeakable things.

He claps his hand on my shoulder as I settle myself next to him.

“Gabriele, my son.” He calls me his son even though I’m just a poor, homeless brat he picked up in an alley eighteen years ago. “How’s it going with Luca?”

“About as well as you’d expect. I’ll have the names by the end of the night. They’re Russian.”

He beckons me closer and pours me a glass of whiskey. The unsaid command is to drink. That’s exactly what I do. I could use some alcohol. It might even help me forget about Francesca Astor. Her pretty pink lips and haunted blue eyes have been stuck in my brain like bubblegum on a sidewalk. My fingertips still tingle from when I brushed her skin.

“Don’t kill Luca unless he spits out what we need first,” Angelo says. “We need to figure out who is trying to undercut us.”

I dig my hands into my pockets and dish out a noncommittal shrug. “He’s kind of annoying, though.”

“Gabriele,” he emphasizes. “No killing. He has valuable information.”

“Yeah, I got it. Boss.” I salute.

To my side, the underboss twists his wrinkled lips in disgust. He has been quiet so far but I can tell he wants to go home already.

All the capos report to the Don weekly at the backroom of one of the illegal casinos the Russo family operates in Queens. As one of the last Big Five crime families still operating in New York, the Russos have a vast network of resources. However, even though I’m a capo, I didn’t show up at the meeting tonight. Of course, that’s because I was doing my job, but the way the Don is so lenient with me often rubs the other members of the organization the wrong way. Especially since Nico, the underboss, is his biological son.

I look down at my hand, taking in the trace of blood smudged between my knuckles. For some reason, my mind immediately travels back to Francesca Astor, to the red sweater she was wearing. To the sadness that hugged her shoulders as they slumped down in my car seat. She’s definitely depressed. And I have no reason to care about her mental health in the first place.

“Ricardo said you picked up the girl who witnessed it.” Nico’s voice fragments my concentration, dissolving all images of porcelain skin and big, wide eyes full of fear. “Who is she?”

“Francesca Astor,” I reply.

“The Astors.” The Don rubs his nose, the number of wrinkles on his face multiplying rapidly. “That’s not good.”

“She won’t talk. I’m having her watched.”

He dips his head in a slow nod. “Why do you look like you swallowed glass, though?”

“Can’t stand her type.”

“Rich heiresses?”

“Addicts.”

“Your Mama was one, wasn’t she?”

A sharp, edgy sensation tears under my skin. I never told him about my mother or my childhood, but he must have done a background check at some point. I’ve been a capo for long enough and the Don is a shrewd man. He’d never let someone into his inner circle without arming himself with every single piece of information. It wouldn’t surprise me if he knew all my weaknesses.

I don’t hate him for it. When I swore my life and loyalty to him, I meant every word. I have never once thought of betraying this man.

Because nobody has ever cared for me the way he has. Angelo saved my life.

I didn’t have the best childhood, to be honest. I don’t know who my father was and my mother spent all her money on drugs to escape the harsh reality of her existence. Anything that wasn’t her next fix was inconsequential to her. Including me.

I had to start fending for myself pretty early on. When there wasn’t enough money at home, I joined a local gang. Cuts, bruises, and violence have been my life since sixteen. I made okay money, but the jobs were dangerous.

On the night the Don found me, I was lying half-dead in the snow in some grimy alley, bleeding out of my stomach after being shanked by a blade and abandoned by the other members of my group. We’d gotten into a skirmish with a rival gang.

Blackness, final and cold, threatened my vision. Angelo’s steely eyes were the first and last thing I saw before the icy night sunk its fingers into me and erased the world.

When the darkness cleared, I was sleeping in a warm room in Angelo Russo’s fancy mansion. He’d spotted me while exiting a restaurant. Unable to leave me alone, he brought me home. I stayed at the mansion for a week to recover after which he offered me a job. It was a no-brainer to serve him for the rest of my life. Normal people might feel differently, but to me, he was the closest thing to a parental figure I’d ever had. So I pledged everything to him.

Violence and intimidation were woven into my blood by that point. I wasn’t good at anything except fighting, so there was only one path for someone like me to climb up in the world—crime.

“Drink some more,” Angelo encourages me now, pouring me some more whiskey.

I grab the glass and down it in a few gulps. The burn sears the inside of my throat, stroking the fire in my chest. At the agony that spreads through my insides, the old anger comes back flashing.

I recognize now why Francesca Astor gets under my skin. She’s like my mother. Or at least she will be, soon. There’s no saving her. She’s going to be consumed by the desperate need to escape the ugliness of the world.

I swore to stay away from those types once Angelo took me in.

I don’t need a future like my past. I left that miserable life behind a long time ago. Forever.

“Isn’t it your birthday next month?” Angelo’s casual tap on my knee rattles something deep inside. I straighten my spine, alert. He has never cared about my birthdays before. “How old will you be turning?”

“Thirty-four,” I reply.

“And still unmarried. What a loss to the world.” He shakes his head, the unsaid threat hanging in the air. Nico’s eyes narrow beside me. So this conversation was the real reason he pulled me out in the middle of the job.

“Papa, can you get to the point? I’m sure our capo has a task to finish,” Nico prods.

“Well…” Angelo hesitates. “I have a friend. A rich friend. His daughter used to be married, but her husband was a bad man. An abusive man. She divorced him last fall. Unfortunately, he’s powerful and out for revenge, so she cannot marry again unless her new husband can protect her. I told my friend I know a decent man who treats women well. What do you say to that?”

“I’m humbled by your confidence in my character,” I say. “If you were, in fact, referring to me.”

“Of course I meant you!” The Don cracks his lips wide in a jovial smile. “Nico’s too surly—”

“And I’m married,” Nico interrupts.

Angelo clicks his tongue. “What do you say, Gabriele?”

I rub my chin. There’s nothing to think about. We all play our roles in this world. And being a capo was the role I chose to play. My future is writ in stone, sealed by the stars, a straight and narrow path filled with orders to obey and violence to commit.

The day I gave my life to Angelo, I knew an arranged marriage was going to be inevitable. If it benefits my standing in the family and benefits the Russos, I have nothing to complain about.

“As long as she isn’t an addict, I’m fine with it,” I reply.

“No drug issues,” Angelo assures me with softness in his tone. He’s becoming very sentimental in old age. “She’s a very gentle woman who doesn’t ask for much. I think you two will suit each other. Both kind souls with a tragic past.”

Nico winces at that overly poetic description. He’s the type who can’t hide his emotions. That’s why he always loses in card games to me. His poker face is shit.

“I hope so,” I reply.

“I’ll arrange for you two to meet. Her father is very worried—she has been through a lot.”

I nod quietly—there’s no other appropriate response here.

“Great!” The Don slaps his hands on his knees, voice pitched high. “What a fine night this has been.”

I exhale. “If there’s nothing else—”

“Yeah, go back and grill Luca,” Nico grinds out. “We’ll hang around a bit longer until you have the names.”

“Suit yourself.” I slide my glass to the center of the table.

Then I rise and stride away.

My luck must have vanished into the ether. Not only does Luca’s interrogation end with him dying without coughing up anything worthwhile, but Antonio tells me a week later that he’s done with the rich heiress.

“She makes me drive her to school every morning and gets drunk or high every night. I had to haul her up to her room last night. Then she vomited on me. Please. I’m begging you. No more of this job.” Antonio lets out a tired sigh. His voice crackles on the phone.

“I told you to observe her, not become her father,” I chide.

“I’m going mad, Gabriele! College girls make my skin crawl. Can’t you get Ricardo to do this? He likes flirting. Maybe he’ll get friendly with her.”

“Ricardo messed up with Luca so he’s out of the picture for the moment until the Don’s temper cools down,” I intone in a steady voice, rolling a paperweight between my fingers.

I’m sitting at the desk in my home, going through the web of money laundering transactions Luca completed in the last few weeks, hoping to find a clue somewhere. Intellectual work is not one of my strengths so the progress has been…well, nonexistent.

Frankly, I need to come up with something. A nugget of valuable intel to get back into Nico and Angelo’s good graces. Ricardo isn’t the only one who butchered his chances for promotion. I was supposed to keep the whole thing under control but I took my eyes off him for a second and it all went to hell in a handbasket.

“I’ll do anything else,” Antonio pleads. “Just get me out of here.”

I don’t have men to spare. I could get Ricardo to watch the Astor girl but he’ll definitely try to get in her pants. The leap of hot acid inside my chest startles me. Why do I hate the notion of him flirting with Francesca Astor? Why do I detest the idea of someone from my world tainting her life with the darkness that working in organized crime fills your bones with?

In my profession, you see the worst. Before you know it, you become the worst. The heiress is a sheltered little girl, barely twenty-one. She’s already sabotaging her life with substances. She doesn’t need something even worse.

“I’ll watch the Astor girl.” My throat clamps around the words possessively, wanting to keep my rational mind from taking them back. My fingers drum against the back of my cellphone, producing a hollow sound that echoes in my ear. “In return, you’ll dig into some documents for me. Use your brains to trace Luca’s money. I need to know where it was coming from.”

Antonio groans. He hates desk work. Everyone does. But he’s better than me because he’s good at focusing on details. “Alright. We switch at twelve. I want to eat proper lunch for once.”

“I’ll be there.”

Our deal made, I get my ass out of the office chair. There are a series of black jackets hanging in my wardrobe. I throw one on. Black shirt, black pants, black jacket, black coat, and a gold chain to contrast against the ink swarming over my skin. It completes my look. Nobody could accuse me of not looking like a textbook gangster in this outfit.

By afternoon, I have found my way to the NYU campus in East Village. Antonio emailed me his reports on Francesca and other useful information. Yeah, we’re pretty high-tech these days in the mafia.

Antonio made a detailed timetable of Francesca’s daily schedule. She goes to NYU Steinhardt in the morning and spends all day there until it’s time for lunch. She eats at a fancy brunch place a few blocks away. Then goes back to school. Since she’s in her final year, she’s taking a module called Senior Studio, where she’s supposed to work in her own art studio to create a piece to be part of her spring thesis. I can’t believe Antonio went so far as to research her course curriculum. He must’ve been really miserable.

And I must be even more bored than him because I stride right into the building where the studios are located. 75 3rd Ave. My plan? I have none. My reason for waltzing into a building infested with privileged, artsy types? None, except that I’m itching to look at the pair of sea-glass blue eyes that have been taunting me in my dreams.

A burly security guard checks IDs at the entrance. His eyes narrow at me immediately but some run-of-the-mill threatening works wonders on him and he lets me stroll through. Hate to brag, but I’m pretty intimidating when I decide to be.

I locate the studio number Francesca is at because Antonio never misses a detail in his reports. He even described all the paintings and the length and width of the walls in the room. The man should’ve been in the FBI, not a soldier for the Russo family. He has real talent.

I kick the door open, impatience fusing with sharp inhales and exhales. For some reason, I can’t wait to see the Astor girl. Nothing rational can explain this impulse and I’m not drunk enough to go diving within the deep, dark murkiness of my psyche for all the wrong, inappropriate reasons I want my eyes on her again.

A high-pitched yelp serenades into the space as I close the door behind me.

“What’re you doing here?” Outrage colors her voice.

I scan her frozen form, every line and curve of her thrown into relief by the blank canvas behind her.

Fuck. She looks better than I remember. Less like a stoned teenager and more like a woman with a body that practically oozes an invitation to the depths of hell. The shadows in my car coupled with the baggy sweater and clothes she wore made her look practically homeless that night but she has scrubbed up nicely now.

Her tiny tweed miniskirt and jacket combo shows off her toned, tanned, endless legs. The pale blue and ivory color of the co-ord set accentuates the color of her eyes.

“A whole-ass personal studio.” I skim my gaze across the white walls and the series of rectangular paintings in various sizes hanging off them. “How bougie. I didn’t even have my own bathroom when I was your age.”

She rolls her eyes. “Was that supposed to make me feel sympathetic for you? Because it didn’t work.”

“Wonder why that is.”

The sharp lift of her eyebrows is my silent answer.

“Don’t hold a man’s job against him.” I grab the paints lying on a table in her studio and examine them one by one.

Not sure what I’m looking for here. Probably the drugs. She must have them here somewhere.

“Can you please get out? I need to paint,” she says, turning around toward the canvas and giving me an unnecessary glimpse of her round ass encased by her tight blue miniskirt. “The spring thesis exhibition is coming up soon.”

“What’re you painting?” I curve an arm around her shoulder, a deliberate effort on my part to make her feel at ease. But instead of warming up to my friendly gesture, she shakes me off as if I scalded her with hot water.

“Don’t touch me.” The clipped, shaky voice curls in my stomach like a bad dream. Her shoulders bunch inward like she’s curling in on herself. Like she’s trying to disappear.

She’s scared. She’s uncomfortable.

I’ve never been in a casual social relationship with a girl, and this kind of gesture has an entirely different meaning when it’s between the sexes.

“I’m sorry.” The phrase breaks past years of conditioning and rips out of my mouth like I’m spitting out a broken piece of glass. The first thing they teach you in the mafia is to never apologize to someone you’re trying to control and intimidate because it makes them think they have the upper hand. Guilt is a powerful chain to bind people with. “I wasn’t thinking.”

The heiress’s shoulders drop a notch. Her long eyelashes fan over her pretty cheeks as she closes her eyes and releases a breath.

“As long as you know.” Francesca goes back to staring at her painting.

I drag my feet backward, positioning myself on the opposite corner. The studio suddenly feels like a shoebox. Our inhales and exhales are the only sound, and the scents of expensive roses and the filth of the streets mingle until they become inseparable.

I quietly observe her for five more minutes where she does nothing but glare at the canvas. I never claimed to understand art. I understand the confusing explosions of paint Francesca has produced even less than I would a normal watercolor scenery. It’s a lot of black and blue with some red and yellow splotches.

“Is that a night sky?” I inquire, keeping my voice low.

She drops to her knees, burying her head in her hands. “I don’t know what it is. Or what it’s supposed to be.”

“Doesn’t look bad,” I lie, even though I didn’t have to. I could have told her the painting’s nothing special. But then that shadowy, defeated look I caught that night will crawl into her eyes again.

Francesca Astor’s already standing on the edge of the metaphorical cliff, looking for an excuse to jump. I don’t want to be the one who pushes her off.

Her teeth tap against each other. “Well, I exist for the sole purpose of impressing you, so I’m happy you’re moved by my achievements.”

Her sarcasm withers at my answering glare.

I lean forward. My palms find the wall behind her, caging her in. God save me, it’s too exciting to intimidate her. The way she scares easily when faced with my power makes the self-loathing I feel at myself worth it. “Wouldn’t kill you to be nice to me.”

She clears her throat.

“How do you know?” She scoffs. “I doubt you’ve ever tried being nice to anyone who stalked you.”

Soft, feather-light brushes of air from her open mouth tickle my collarbone. Even her fucking breaths smell like a rose garden. What in the world do they feed these rich girls for breakfast every day? A whole bottle of expensive perfume?

“Stalking you,” I correct, waving my hand up and down to highlight my magnificent body. “I’m still at it. It’s not in the past tense yet.”

A reluctant smile edges her lips. It transforms her whole face. I can’t believe she’s still the same dark, hollow addict. Her smile stretches broader, imprinting those beautiful pink lips in my memory once more. Fuck. I need to stop making her smile. ASAP.

“Look at my luck.” She pouts. “Of all the gangsters in New York, I end up with the one who is a grammar Nazi. Can I get the previous guy back? He was quieter.”

“Then you shouldn’t have puked on him. He folded because of that.” I finger the starchy collar of my shirt that my housekeeper did a bad job of ironing. I can feel the creases under my thumb. It makes me feel even poorer in front of this rich girl who seems to be woven from perfection.

I close my eyes. Stop. I left that self-pitying, bruised boy back in my past where he belongs.

Francesca’s gaze drops, her smile dissolving. She tucks a thick strand of golden hair behind her ear. “I feel bad about that. Antonio didn’t deserve it. I drank too much. My head was all blurry. He was just being nice to me. To make up for it, I even bought him a new suit. I wanted to give it to him today but he didn’t turn up.”

A foreign pain lances through my chest like a needle being pushed through flesh.

I like the heiress more when she’s being annoying than when she’s being considerate. Because kind Francesca is someone who makes my chest harden without explanation. I almost forget that she’s not like this all the time, that she becomes a hollow, craving creature who seeks escape in the blink of an eye.

There’s something about this part of her that demands to be protected. To be cherished. To be treated like a precious gem. I have to remind myself that it’s my job to destroy her. Any day, I might have to put a bullet in that pretty head and blow it to pieces if she threatens the Russo family in any way.

“Why?” My pitch rises as my chest tightens. An uneasy anger spirals in my stomach.

“Why did I buy the suit?” She taps her softly carved jaw which reminds me of a sculpture that I saw in one of the other studios as I walked past. “It’s only fair that I compensate Antonio—”

“No, the alcohol. Why did you drink so much that you had to throw up on him?”

That question zings the air with a current of silence. A shuffle of feet punctuates the awkward moment. Francesca goes back to scratching her paintbrush against the palette. The pigments on there have already dried. Hasn’t she been painting since morning? But what do I know? Maybe oil paints dry out easily.

“Why do you get drunk, Francesca?” I repeat, grinding my shoe back and forth on the floor, hating the volatile tension that has taken hold of the space. It’s none of my business. She’ll probably lie to me and say her friends made her do it or that she’s young. But I can’t dissuade myself from digging deeper into her psyche, cracking open more of her facade and seeing the ugly emotions she’s hiding spill out into the light. It’s a compulsion. Every word I speak is a compulsion when I’m with her. “Tell me.”

She rotates her body, dropping her palette on the table. The storm in her eyes has warped her irises into a darker, murkier blue.

“Cause I missed something,” she spits out on a shaky breath.

“What?”

“Myself. I missed myself.”

I brush an impatient hand over my hair. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

“I…” I’m certain she’ll change her mind and swallow the rest of that sentence, but her voice softens as she continues, “I’ve always loved drawing since I was a kid. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. Art was my life. I was always happy when I was painting. I could get lost in the colors, in the vision, in the beautiful picture taking shape in front of me. But ever since I started this program, there’s been this huge pressure to be acclaimed by critics, to exhibit my work in an art gallery, to get a commission, and to find fame on social media so I can sell my pieces. But the more I chase success and validation, the less confident I feel that people will appreciate my work. I guess I miss my old self who could paint without any pressure to make a career out of it.”

“You have enough money. You won’t die without a job,” I chime in unhelpfully.

“You don’t get it, do you? I want to be more than a girl with money. I want to be someone who created something important. I want people to see me when they see me, not the Astor fortune.” Francesca slumps to her knees. She caresses the surface of the incomprehensible painting. “Forget it. I’m wasting my breath.”

The drained, hopeless emotion bleeding from her every pore sticks to me like glue. I don’t think I’ll be able to wash off the memory of this moment for days even if I try.

I remind myself that she’s young. Also, I don’t really care about her. I’m only keeping an eye on her so she doesn’t cause Angelo any trouble with the law.

Yet, this feels like more than killing time.

Before I can pluck out an appropriate response to her, a jarring ringtone robs me of the opportunity to speak.

Francesca swoops for her phone. Her whole face wrinkles in tension at whatever ID she reads on the screen. She drags the red icon, then throws the device back onto the table in her studio.

The gnawing curiosity that has fueled my fascination for the heiress punctures by ribs once again, burrowing deep under my skin.

“Who was that?” I ask, putting far too much authority behind an innocuous question.

She shrugs her tiny shoulders like she didn’t just get screamed at by a terrifying mobster. “No one.”

“I heard a ringtone. So it wasn’t a ghost.”

Her eyes narrow. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re overbearing?”

“I don’t need you getting cozy with your friends and telling them what you saw.” The sounds pour out of my mouth propelled by hot fury.

“If you really cared about that, you’d have thrown me in an underground dungeon, not given me a ride to my house. You’re aware my phone connection has been working all week?”

She’s clever.

Even if she blabbed about Luca, without any proof of the crime, it would be useless. It’d be a pain to deal with the police bureaucracy, though, but not impossible. Under other circumstances, I’d have done this the hard way.

“Who have you been talking to?” I press.

She knifes her bottom lip with her teeth so hard, it draws blood. “Nobody.”

“You’re a bad liar.”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Afraid I’ll kill your drug dealer?” The more I want to be nice to her, the more my blood heats with the need to do the exact opposite. My fingers skim the ends of her hair. I’ve never held something so fine in my life. I almost question whether I even deserve to put my dirty paws on it. “Poor little rich girl. Where would that leave you?”

Her teeth crack when she bares them. She slaps away my hand. I let her.

“Fine. It was my ex-boyfriend—who unfortunately thinks we’re still together. Happy? And before you ask, I’m not telling you his name.”

An ember of anger stirs in my belly. My heart plummets. The weight of those words settles in my lungs, slowing my intake of oxygen.

“I didn’t ask,” I say emphatically to make myself feel in control.

I don’t care who her clingy ex-boyfriend is. I don’t.

My heart rate diving is not a sign of disappointment. Or interest.

Francesca grabs her Ivory Chanel purse off the table, putting distance between us as she races to the door faster than I can react. “I’m going to eat now. Fighting with you has made me hungry.”

“We were bantering, not fighting,” I correct.

“Sure didn’t feel like lighthearted fun.”

“For the record, I only fight with my fists.” I clear my throat before adding, “And I don’t hurt women.”

It’s meant to put her at ease, but it only serves to raise her suspicion.

“Not even if your boss tells you to?” she questions.

“My boss is a better man than that,” I say.

“Whatever.” She turns her back to me, reaching to open her studio door.

“Are you running away because you told me that you can’t paint and now you think I’m judging you inside my head?” My gaze holds hers, wringing out her silent admission.

“Are you?” Her voice trips on the question. Her mouth is open. Waiting for my answer. Scared. “Are you judging me? Do you think I don’t deserve to be here? That my place should be given to a more talented artist and I’m simply here because of my family’s connections?”

“Did your parents donate to the university?”

Francesca’s eyebrows furrow in irritation. “No. I got in fair and square.”

“You must have some talent then.” I lean back against the wall, pointing to her half-finished artwork. “Plus, this looks colorful.”

“Colorful. What a compliment.”

“You really hate when a guy is being nice to you, don’t you?” I scoff. “Guess your type’s self-absorbed boys like your ex who don’t understand boundaries. Bet he never complimented you.”

“How did….” She cuts herself off, narrowing her eyes. “Never mind. I don’t want your compliments.”

“Then try not to look so happy about it next time.” I rub my thumb over my cheek. “You’ve been blushing for the last minute.”

“I’m not!” But she is, and she knows she can’t lie her way out of this, too. Embarrassed, she turns and trots away, shouting, “Don’t follow me. Or I’ll really call the police.”

Her threat is flimsy, but I think my staying here is the better option, too. Spending too much time with her is a bit draining on my…mental state. The constant push and pull that she initiates in my chest between my rational mind which knows she’s a messed-up girl that I need to stay away from and my not-so-rational mind which wants to get as close to her as possible.

No wonder Antonio wanted nothing to do with Francesca Astor after a week. She gets under your skin with her softness and kindness until you start wanting to protect her. I get it now; why he drove her to school every day. I’m already ready to buy her lunch and I’ve talked to her for all of ten minutes.

“Go. I’ll guard your paintings.” I pick up the brush, dipping it in red paint. “Maybe I’ll add some color to this canvas myself.”

“Don’t you dare!” She marches over and yanks the paintbrush out of my hand. “This is going to be my masterpiece.”

“Who knows?” I say. “I might have more talent than you. You have an artist’s block anyway. I could be your saving grace.”

She hisses in disgust. “Doubt it.”

“Okay. I’ll just scroll through my phone then.”

She shoots me daggers through her eyes as she pads back over to the studio’s open door.