Chapter 9: Wicked Fame: Chapter 9

Cold shivers lap under my skin like waves as I cross one heeled foot under the other.

I’m seated in my studio beside my thesis painting, my unexpected guest hovering over me at nine in the morning wearing a navy pantsuit. I forgot her name already. She works for the architectural firm that designed Hudson 241—the same company that commissioned me. She called me this morning saying she had to speak to me.

My lips are red due to my constant nibbling. Irritation surges up and down my spine as she surveys the half-finished picture, prolonging the horrible moment we both know is coming.

“Hope you had a good morning,” I start, sounding dumb and confused, scratching my skin because I’m craving something I told myself I couldn’t have.

I haven’t really been myself since I stopped drinking and doing drugs ever since Gabriele told me about his mother. I’m grateful that he shared his tragic past with me. Vulnerability isn’t in his character for him but he still gave it to me at that moment.

Hearing his story has made me reflect deeply on my choices for the first time. Before, I lived in the moment, equating every hit with artistic progress. I never considered what it’d lead to, long-term. Who I’d become if I kept going like this.

Gabriele’s warning woke me up from my dream.

I don’t want to become someone like his mom. More than that, I don’t want to grow so dependent on drugs that I forget about art. It has happened a lot recently, times when I snort because it’s fun and helps me escape the pressure I put on myself all day. Even though I promised myself when I started that I’d only use substances when I absolutely needed them to paint, I’ve broken that vow many times already.

My control over myself is slipping slowly. It’s unmistakable. I can’t deny it anymore.

That’s why I’ve chosen to end it. The first day was hell. My aches and pains kept me in bed all day, and at some point, I started to seriously contemplate dying. But I soldiered through with sheer grit. The thing is, I can’t afford to go to rehab right now. This is a crucial period for my career. So I’m going to try to quit on my own.

“We begin showing the staged apartment in two weeks, so we need your artwork in the lobby by then,” says the lady, turning her slim, pretty jaw to me. “Hopefully that won’t be a problem.”

My heart nearly tears itself apart with the effort required to pump blood at that moment. No way. This is even worse than I imagined.

“I need more time,” I stutter. “We agreed on eight months. It has only been six.”

“You should’ve at least completed one painting by now.” The disapproving smile on her lips unnerves me and splits me open. “Honestly, we only gave you the commission because your brother bought the penthouse and said you were talented. We usually pick more established artists but it tied in well with our youth-oriented charity efforts this year, so the director approved it.”

My whole world comes crashing down at that statement. I thought the architectural firm had approached me because they’d seen my paintings on my website and Instagram. I have a hundred thousand followers on the app, which is nothing to scoff at.

“Um…well…” I stammer, the familiar scathing voices coursing through my blood.

Liar.

Nepo baby.

Worthless.

Despite my impending doom, my brain’s somehow stuck on the fact that Ethan bought the penthouse. He has lived in a hotel room since he turned twenty-one. The guy used to tell me owning a home was a waste of money because of all the maintenance costs. Ella must’ve changed his mind. Could it be that he’s planning to move in with his girlfriend? Maybe he has finally decided to buy a home and settle down. I wish he’d told me that he was the one who recommended me. But how could he when all I’ve done is avoid him for months?

“We’d like to have something in the lobby as we show potential buyers around this month. Adds a pop of color. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes, of course.” My skin is dissolving with anxiety.

I’m cornered from all sides.

My spring thesis submission is in a month. I need to show my professors my progress this week. With the help of a few substance-induced highs, I’ve managed to keep up with it so far, but every single time I’m alone in the studio, I’m terrified I’ll be butchered by art critics and my peers at the final exhibition. They already think I’m a pampered princess who doesn’t take art seriously even though I’ve aced every course since my first semester. But here’s the thing with resentment: it doesn’t go away no matter how many times you prove yourself.

My background is a brand on my skin, a tattoo I can’t erase for as long as I live. That’s why everything rides on my success and continuously wowing people with my talent. I don’t have any room for mediocrity. Or excuses.

My mind dances over the possibilities of how I can quickly complete the painting. I have a half-finished one from my first year. Maybe I could finish it instead of starting a new one.

“I’ll have the painting delivered to you as soon as I can,” I say. A tremor moves up my entire body, rattling my resolve to stay off drugs. The desperation is gaining hold of me, the compelling notes of just one more time playing on a loop in my head.

“Very good. I look forward to hanging your painting in the lobby,” she says, rising to her feet. “I’ll call you once it’s done so you can take a picture and upload it to your social media.”

The moment the lady leaves my studio, my mind leaps to a million paranoid scenarios: they’re going to hate my painting. They’re going to refuse to display it. My career is going to be over before it has started. I’ll be a pariah in the art world for failing to keep promises.

The drug withdrawal, coupled with paranoia makes for a nauseating combo. My nerves are shaky, and my throat is filled with irritation that I can’t wait to release at someone. God, I need something strong. Preferably alcoholic. But I swore to quit after Gabriele bailed me out.

I must persevere when it’s hard.

I can’t let my cravings control me.

I scrunch my eyes shut, gathering my knees to my chest and curling myself up into a ball on the floor. It’s one of the techniques I’ve started using to ride out the lows.

The rasp of shoes against the floor breaks my concentration. Gabriele’s broad form slithers in, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Who was that woman?”

“An employee of Hudson 241. She was here for business.”

He cocks an eyebrow in concern. “You look pale.”

“I’m trying to get sober,” I confess in a thin voice. “It’s been hell so far.”

He dares to laugh. “Are you stupid? That’s what rehab is for. You can’t quit by yourself.”

“Watch me.”

“I am watching you. You’re shaking.”

“I need something to take my mind off the mental agony,” I curl my fingers so hard my nails leave nasty marks inside my palm. “You. I need you.”

The uncontrollable urge to press my skin against his, to lose myself in his touch has me rising to my feet. I extend my hand to him, the same way he did that night at the gala.

I took it without hesitation then.

He simply scoffs.

“Kiss me,” I demand, irate. I’m annoyed often nowadays. I read it’s one of the side effects of withdrawal. “Just this once. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“I know a good rehab facility,” Gabriele says drily, ignoring my plea. “I’ll text you their address if you want.”

“I have to finish my painting in two weeks!” I scream. “I’m not wasting months at a recovery center.”

He clicks his tongue in disappointment. “You can’t give up the commission?”

“No way. It’ll ruin my reputation forever. I’ve worked hard for decades. I’m not throwing away my golden opportunity for success.”

“Even if it costs you everything?”

I press against my aching temples. “I’ll deal with it.”

Why in the world does my whole body hurt? While I simmer in hurt over his rejection, he brushes his hand over the top of my head. His slow, quiet statement stings me. “I can’t decide whether I pity you or hate you.”

“Maybe you’re just attracted to me.” Locking my arms behind his neck, I tilt up my lips, offering myself to him on a platter. I haven’t desired anything as much as I desire the pain he can give me, the exquisite touches that can dissolve all my thoughts. “Wouldn’t hurt to give in to your impulses. It can’t be healthy to live in constants self-denial.”

He arches an eyebrow in suspicion. “What has gotten into you, Francesca? You could have anyone. I’m the last guy you should be begging.”

“Because it’s different with you,” I reply, squeezing my voice to keep myself from sounding too desperate. “It may sound like I’m making this up, but the day after we did it, I could see everything clearly. Something changed. In the toilet where you fucked me, I started to see colors in a different light. What I’m saying is…I was angry when you left me, yes, but I felt inspired when I got home. I started painting something new and finished a lot of the basic details. It was terrible, but I haven’t been so productive in ages.”

“You think being fingered by me triggered that?” He curls his lips like this is the biggest load of bull he has ever heard. “I think it was your own talent. You own drive.”

No way. I have no talent, and these days, I have no self-discipline, either. I’m sure it was the magical feeling that wrapped around me after that orgasm, the way my whole body unraveled after going through such a mind-blowing experience, leaving me vulnerable and open for more wondrous experiences.

Gabriele made me feel pain and that pain broke the parts of me that hold me back.

“Every artist has their muse. You might be mine, Gabriele,” I whisper.

He coughs, disbelief threading through the sound. “I’m a gangster, baby, not some mythical creature.”

“But you’ve awakened something in me.” I take his hand and press it to my chest, over my beating heart. When he was fucking me, I was ten times more aware of being alive. Of breathing and creating. Of my own beauty as well as my own ugliness. He made me see everything. “I think it might be something good. Why don’t we explore it? Also, I have to get the commission painting done and since I have no better ideas, I’m willing to try having sex with you.”

“That’s enough.” He pulls his palm away. “I’m not hearing any more of this nonsense.”

My brain works out the details of the proposal right as I’m spitting the words from my mouth. “How about we have an affair? It’ll just be sex. No feelings involved. Promise I won’t cling. Think about it. You’re in the mafia and I’m the heiress of Astor Hotels. We can’t date anyway.”

“No.” His flat refusal exasperates me.

“Hate to brag about myself, but I give a mean blowjob. Shall I show you?” My fingers carve a path down the front of his shirt, my long nails catching on the buttons.

Strong fingers seize my hand before I can get lower. “Don’t get carried away. I can still put a bullet in your head any time.”

Gabriele separates my clingy arms from his body, fully aware that I’m trying to get him to go further than just a kiss.

I’m too exhausted to fight but too angry to simply seethe quietly. “Why do you hate fun so much? Life’s more exciting when you give in to things you’re not supposed to.”

“If I wanted a thrill, I’d find a whore.”

“When I’m offering to do it for free?”

He squares his shoulders. “Learn some self-control.”

“There’s no point pretending to be mean when I know you care about me.” I trail a finger under his chin. “It would have been easy for you to let me get drunk at the gala but you helped me. How is this any different? I’m simply asking you to help me paint. Being a muse is an honor, you know.”

Black loathing swirls in his eyes. “You can’t keep using me as a crutch, Francesca.”

“Why not?”

“Because you can’t be saved and I can’t save you.”

“You saved me before,” I say, getting to my knees. “I didn’t drink that night. I just told you. I couldn’t think of anything but art once I stopped fuming at your coldness.”

His eyes are narrow as he registers my statement.

“Get up.” The acidic tone accompanied by the hard squeeze of his fingers around my wrist hits me like a ton of bricks. He’s probably recalling his mother. How she treated him. Does he think I’m manipulating him? Using him to further my own interest?

The incessant need for another hit transforms into a heavy mass of guilt. He’s not wrong. I can’t offer him anything but reciprocal sex in exchange for the favor he’ll be doing me.

“While we’re on the subject of you repaying me, I figured out what I want you to pay me back with.” His rasp slides into my blood and makes me shiver from the inside. “For the fifteen thousand you now owe me, remember?”

Please tell me it’s sex because I’m so ready.

As if he knows what I’m thinking, he shakes his head. “I want you to paint me a picture.”

All the passionate, tingly sensations in my stomach turn to ash.

“What? Are you crazy? Do you think I have the time?”

“I’m not demanding it tomorrow,” he clarifies. “I’ll give you six months.”

“That’s still not enough!”

He shrugs, the evil bastard. “It might break you or drive you to insanity. Either way, I’ll enjoy the show.”

“So you’re making me pay with agony?”

I’m scared. I’m already drowning under the weight of three paintings I haven’t finished. I don’t need one more to add to my burdens. Under any other circumstance, I’d have loved to create something for Gabriele, to have him always hold onto a piece of me through my art.

“I have something very specific in mind,” he continues, fishing into his pocket. I blink at the photograph he produces. “Paint me this picture, but make it brighter.”

The boy in the photo looks young. He’s definitely not Gabriele. His features are completely different. He has a crooked nose and a friendly smile.

“Who is he?” I ask.

“Someone I used to know.”

“Brother?”

“Not by blood.”

“Name?”

“Not telling you.”

A sigh rolls off my lips. “What kind of person was he? I’m only asking because it’ll help me decide how I want to paint him.”

“He was kind. Helpful. Had big dreams.” Gabriele swallows, his gaze sliding down my skin like a hot poker. I want to climb him like a pole and scrape away the sharp edges of my craving. Now that I have the theory that fucking him will make me more productive, I need to validate it. To know there’s a way out of the black hole I’m in right now. “A lot like you.”

I clear my throat to cover my frustration at my own powerlessness. I’ve never struggled so much to get a guy interested in screwing me. Usually, they’re more eager.

“You still talk to him?” I ask.

Gabriele drags out a heavy sigh. “He’s dead.”

“How?”

“I killed him.”

The air between us grows heavy, burdened by the weight of this revelation. Gabriele doesn’t elaborate. A faint dusting of pink crawls across his cheeks.

“You killed him?” My jaw comes unhinged in shock. I don’t know why this surprises me; he’s a professional criminal. But he said the guy was like a brother to him. “I don’t get it. Why?”

“Because he betrayed Angelo.”

“But he was your friend,” I whisper, my heart thundering.

“More than a friend. We were members of the same gang since when I was a teenager. He was the first guy who really cared for me. But there’s no mercy for traitors in the family.” He grits his teeth and talks in a monotone like he’s reciting some arcane law in a cult’s rulebook. At the end of the day, I suppose the mafia isn’t any different from a cult.

I curl my hand around his. “Did you want to do it?”

“No.” One hand cradles the side of his face. “It still gives me nightmares to this day. His face in those last moments.”

Light strings through his dark pupils, illuminating his anguish. I can tell he still hasn’t forgiven himself for the episode.

My heart shudders. I can feel his regret seeping into me, drowning out the desire for intoxicants, replacing it with sympathy, pity, and the intense need to comfort him.

I know I have no moral high ground, but I’m supposed to be repulsed by the fact that he killed someone. He killed a man. An actual human being. I should be running for the hills, not wanting to rub my body against him and make the miserable expression on his face go away.

He just gave me another piece of himself, a fragment of his past that I’m certain he hasn’t shared with very many people. I’m honored he trusts me. It feels good to be useful to someone, to know that he can be as honest with me as I am with him.

For that one brief moment, every thought of need and craving evaporates from my brain. The intimacy we share feels precious like it’s the center of the world.

“Then why did you do it?” My voice trips over my shuddering breaths.

“Because I had to survive in the underworld. Because that’s the kind of man I am.” He steps away from me. “I’m a mobster. Taking lives is my way of life. You keep forgetting that.”

“I haven’t forgotten it,” I murmur, shrinking on the inside. “But you look sad to me, not dangerous.”

“I am sad.” Gabriele lets out the longest exhale, closing his eyes. When he opens them again, I swear they’re so soft, he could be a different man. “God, it felt so good to admit that.”

He laughs a little, but the laugh is brittle and melancholic. My heart totally breaks.

Fire burns inside my chest. Regret. Shame. Inferiority. They wash over me in turn. Here I am, pestering him to have sex with me because I can’t paint. When he deals with the guilt of killing his best friend every single day, and still manages to not crumble.

“I knew I was drawn to you for a reason,” I end up vocalizing my thought.

“And what reason would that be?” Gabriele asks, his voice a touch more playful than usual.

“Because you live with demons, too.” It’s so quiet, the end of my sentence reverberates in the air. “But unlike me, you never let them destroy you.”

“I’m a fighter, Francesca.” His gaze is icy, but his voice is passionate. “I learned to be one. By accepting pain and seeing it as a sign of strength rather than a flaw. Hurting is natural. It is the process of being human.”

“I hate being human sometimes. I think I’d be happier if I was a frog.”

If I was a frog, I wish I could stop feeling altogether. My emotions are intense and uncontrollable. What’s a harsh word to someone else is a death sentence to me that I’ll replay in my head for weeks. Tides of despair come and go at their will inside my mind.

Gabriele’s lips jerk up in a smile. “I’m sorry if I burdened you with my past, but it’s not yours to care about. I’ll deal with it myself. You have more than enough to occupy your mind. Starting with how you’re going to finish my painting.”

“You didn’t have to say that.” I sniff. “We were having a good moment right now.”

“No, we weren’t. We were having a negotiation about how you’re going to pay me back.”

“I’ll try,” I promise. “To do justice to your friend’s picture.”

Contrary to my statement, my resolve has already crumbled on the inside. I’m playing a losing game. There’s no way I can ever be as strong as Gabriele.

“Sorry for telling you such a gruesome story.” Gabriele’s voice breaks me away from my spiraling thoughts. “You didn’t need to hear it. Don’t let it affect you when you’re painting my friend.”

“I’m glad you revealed something so personal to me.” I touch his knuckles lightly. Reassuring. “Guess you’re growing to trust me despite how you act.”

Gabriele doesn’t immediately voice his protest, which is a small win.

He rubs his wrist against his side. “Never thought you’d be the person I’d confess to. If any of my men knew, they’d lose all respect for me.”

“Because you regret killing your friend?” I ask.

He sighs.

“I’m glad you regret it. Empathy is what separates psychopaths from the rest of us.”

A scoff this time.

“So don’t hate yourself for being human,” I add. “Also, feel free to tell me more of your secrets anytime. You saved my life. The least I can do is listen to you.”

“You have a funny way of being helpful,” Gabriele says.

When his eyes stay on me a beat too long, thick heat envelopes my senses. The familiar hum of need sings in my bloodstream, the familiar promise of escape. If only he touched me again, breathed heat into my ice-cold veins.

The desire he imprints on my skin with every touch, every glance, and every caress is proof that at least one person in the world needs my existence. In a world filled with haters, I only need one lover to give me the will to fight the voices one more day.

“Gabriele, I’m happy you’re back.” My palm slides against my hips, itching for a touch of him. “I didn’t like Ricardo. He was such a jerk.”

“That means he did his job well.”

I tilt my body closer to his. Before anything can happen, though, his phone rings. The moment his gaze flicks to the caller ID, his easy, nonchalant expression darkens ten notches. Some kind of trouble, I’m guessing, from the lines digging into his forehead.

He massages his temples, not even looking up from his phone as he waves at me and leaves the studio.

Without his magnetic face to gawk at, I’m back to focusing on my unhealthy thoughts.

Darkness writhes in my blood. I force my attention to circle the room, to find another subject to obsess over. And I find it so easily: my unfinished painting. Just like that, I’m back to the exact issue I was trying to escape.

How am I going to complete a whole new painting in two weeks? I haven’t even started. I’m going to have to retreat to my studio in the woods. It’s more a cabin than a studio, but at least I can drink and get high all I want over there, meaning I’ll probably be able to finish the painting faster than at this studio in the university, where I must always appear sober.

Only one problem: I can’t go alone. I’m no longer so in control of myself that I trust being alone in an isolated cabin. I might forget to eat. Or sleep. Or live.

What would Gabriele say if I asked him to go with me?

I exhale. He’ll probably refuse.

The noises of him talking fade. I peek and see he’s gone. Maybe something came up at work.

My whole being deflates.

Resentment wars with patience. How could he leave me here alone when my negativity is about to devour me? Wait. I must stop. I don’t have any right to expect comfort from him. But we were so close. I was so close to winning this fight.

Dark noise thrums between my ears.

The answer calls out to me in a single color: white.