A week had passed since I moved into Francesco's mansion and I wanted to thank every higher power for Alessandra as my ally. New evidence had surfaced in Greg's murder case and Francesco and Julio had left New York. With them gone, Alessandra and Buzo were the only people I could talk to.
I had promised myself I would adapt to my new environment but this surrounding proved to be unwelcoming. Most of the servants working in the mansion avoided me like the plague, and if it weren't for Alessandra, I was very sure no one would bother to deliver food or fresh sheets to my room.
"It's because Signore Francesco has yet to announce your status as his fianceé," Alessandra explained, giving me a wry smile. "I know it's unfair, but most of the people working here used to serve the old Don Giacomo. Most of them don't like Signore Francesco as the new head and with you not having a pint of Italian blood...
"I know," I sighed but then grinned. "That's why I'm glad you've got my back."
She smiled back at me. "And I always will."
****
A few hours later, I was in my workshop, struggling to pour out my swirling emotions onto canvas. I mixed several light blue and green shades at first, but ended up adding dark ones. I drew a deep breath, choosing not to fight it. I would allow my emotions guide my hand as I slowly sketched a few shapes before filling it with paint. Slowly, a silhouette figure of a man emerged–a man staring into the raging sea.
I stepped back to have a good view of my canvas from a distance. It wasn't like anything I had painted before, but if felt good to paint it. I sighed as I reached for a thinner brush adding more details and correcting lines. I was so consumed in my work I didn't notice Jace entering my shop and standing beside me.
"Well that's new," he observed, staring at my painting wide-eyed. "Is that Francesco Giacomo?"
"Wh–What?" A nervous laugh broke through my throat. I looked at my painting and frowned. The man in the painting was standing with his back to the observer. It was more like a dark shape, figure, than an actual person. "What makes you think it's Francesco?" I queried.
Jace shrugged. "He has broad shoulders. And he looks like he's wearing a suit."
I gave him a look. "I wasn't painting Francesco Giacomo. I wasn't even thinking about him."
He raised his hands in surrender. "Just saying what it looked like to me."
"You were wrong then," I rolled my eyes and stepped away from the easel.
I entered the bathroom to wash the paints off my hands. Jace followed me, smiling mischievously. "Would it be bad if you admitted you were painting your future husband?"
I grabbed a napkin and wiped my hands. "No, but it would be too...intimate."
"Art is all about exposing your self, baring a piece of your soul," he quoted.
I raised a brow and chuckled. "You think Francesco has anything to do with my soul?"
He held my stare for a while and laughed, shaking his head. "Nope. He definitely hasn't gone that deep...yet."
I snorted. "You make it should like it's a matter of time before he goes that deep and I start to have feelings for him."
"You're forgetting that I know you, Steph," he said, folding his arms over his chest. "I know that you're very tough. But you also need love in your life. You need it more than you need to breathe. Especially after what that son of a bitch, Drake, did to you and since your mom..." he trailed off and drew a slow breath. "What I'm saying is that I'm concerned about you."
"Please," I hissed. "I'm not some giddy teenager who's so going to fall in love with a guy just because he's a good kisser."
"No, but you might soon if he keeps showing up daily like your knight in shiny armour," he argued.
I began to regret telling him everything that had ever happened between Francesco and me. I had always told him of every guy who I dated and he helped me to see things from the men's perspective. But this was different; we were discussing my not-relationship with a mafia boss. Francesco Giacomo was not only in a different league, he seemed like a different specie.
My hands shot into the air in frustration and I walked through my workshop and stopped in the empty space in the middle. "It was you who convinced me to agree to his proposal and marry him and now you're concerned?" I asked with a sneer.
He gave me a tight smile. "If it was only about his good looks, I would give you a thumbs up and tell you to have fun...but this thing between you both...it's intense."
"You think that I'm that easy to charm?" I gave him a look. "I admit that he's good looking but that's it."
He let out a long sigh. "I hope you're sure about it, that that's everything. Because I sure as hell won't like to see you get hurt."
I nodded.
He pulled out his phone from his back pocket. "Now, come on, let's see the sketches I made for your wedding gown, future bride."
My lips formed a crooked smile. "Yeah, let's get it over with."
***
By the time I staggered into my room, I was completely exhausted, perhaps more mentally than physically. I walked into the bathroom, took a shower and changed into a nightgown. Then I barely managed to get my phone out and post new pictures of the work I had painted today online before my eyes closed and I drifted off slowly to unawareness.
The morning came too quickly, and my wake up process was quite violent. I wished it was Alessandra's chirping that had woken me up, but it was the annoying buzzing of my phone. I cursed silently and groaned, chiding myself for not putting the phone on silent mode the night before.
"Francesco," I mumbled sleepily, strangely wishing it was a text from my fiance, but the disappoinment on my face as soon as I glanced at the screen could be seen from miles away.
It was a message I received from my Instagram profile–most likely an advertisement or another sick idiot asking me to send him nude pictures. A few more orisons slipped through my mouth before I reluctantly opened the message. I read it...twice. Then I put down my phone and read it again.
~Dear Mrs Giacomo, my client has seen your latest work and would like to purchase it. If it's possible, he would like to meet with you today to see the painting up close and other works which he would like to add to his private collection~
My heart began to thump with anticipation. This could be the chance I was hoping to get to find more money. Cautiously, I checked the profile of the person who had sent the message. It turned out he was a quite popular intermediary in the sale of art.
I drew another deep breath and let my fingers fly as I replied the message. His reply came a minute later.
I was going to meet my potential buyer at noon.
***
"You sure it's not a scam?" Jade asked, her foot nervously tapping on the floor near the door.
I called her as soon as I secured the appointment. I needed to clean up my workshop, making it look a little more presentable, and she happily agreed to help. We didn't do much, but at least we managed to hide some of the creepy sheets and bring out some of my easels with a few of my works to create a last-minute exhibition.
"William Willoughby is legit," I said, referring to the intermediary who had messaged. "So I hope the buyer is legit too."
She gave me a tight smile. "You should get yourself an agent, you know."
I rolled my eyes. "Agents cost money. And I'm not exactly the most sought after, celebrity artist at the moment."
She opened her mouth then closed it, patting my shoulder instead. I knew what she wanted to say and why she decided not to say it. I had my chance right after one of my paintings had won an international competition and I blew it. I should have focused on painting then, but how could I? After my mom had fallen into a coma, finding a way to get her cured became my number one priority. So my five minutes of fame had slipped away. Choosing my mom wasn't a sacrifice. I would have done it again. But having another shot at being in the spotlight would surely have changed some things in my life....
Finally, the door opened and a tall brunette walked inside. Beside me, Jade gasped and nudged my shoulder with her elbow. "When you're done selling the painting, you can as well add me as a bonus," she muttered, her eyes on my client.
Well, I couldn't blame her. The guy looked like a model–a seriously hot model. He looked like a tall glass of chocolate in a suit. His dark hair was combed back, emphasizing every sharp angle of his face. His amber eyes shone brightly in a frame of dark eyelashes most women would be jealous of.
The ember eyes rested on mine and his full lips stretched into a smile. "You must be Stephanie McMahon," he said, extending his hand towards me. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Marco. Marco Giacomo."