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It was the very last painting he had struggled the most to comprehend, the one left on her easel. The oil had still been wet when she vanished. Unlike her other portraits, which were always human, she had painted a black bird in flight, surrounded by a thin mist. He didn’t recognise the breed, guessed she had created it from her own imagination.

For almost a year he had studied that bird, his mind ticking with increased desperation to see what, if anything, it represented. No matter how hard he looked, all he could see was a bird in flight.

Now, for the first time, he could see what he had been missing.

What he had assumed to be a thin mist he could now see was a dome. The bird was trying to fly out of the dome. The bird could see the freedom of the big wide world but was trapped within its cage.

The painting was a portrait. It was a self-portrait.

Grace had represented herself as the bird. Luca was the dome.

He staggered back to his feet, disconcerted to find the room swimming before his eyes.

It felt as if the walls were closing in on him.

Resting a hand against the wall, he took deep breaths to steady himself but found his airway restricted.

Dear God, what had he done?

He’d captured a beautiful, vibrant bird and taken away its freedoms and the very vivacity that had made it so special.

And then he had recaptured it and, instead of learning his lesson and nurturing it, he had tethered it ever closer, giving it no chance to spread its wings.

Was this really what he wanted? For Grace’s wings to become so clipped she forgot what it even felt like to fly?

And was this what he wanted for Lily, his beautiful fledgling? A life of restriction? Of fear?

An image of his father came into his head, an image that had been fighting for space within him for days.

Grace had been right in her assessment. His father would be appalled to see the man his son had become. He had been fooling himself to ever think otherwise. Never minding his treatment of Grace, his father would be saddened that his eldest son seemed to have embraced the very things he had spent the last years of his life rejecting, the very things he had tried to steer his sons away from.

How had he sleepwalked into such a situation? The worst of it all was, deep down, he had known almost from the beginning that he had made a mistake. Instead of holding his hands up and bowing out, he had let his stupid pride take over, allowed the glamour of the establishments to seduce him, and invested in the nightclubs too.

Francesco might have despised Salvatore and abhorred anything to do with drugs or arms trafficking, but he had learned more than a few of his father’s old tricks.

Luca remembered the first person they had caught trying to steal from their casino. Francesco’s men had half killed him, and for what? All that man had tried to steal was a couple of hundred euros.

Why had he not put a stop to the beating?

It was a question he had asked himself hundreds of times.

He was not averse to violence when absolutely necessary—it was the only language many of the men he dealt with knew—but for two hundred euros? A swift kick in the ribs would have sent just as clear a message.

That night, he’d got home in the early hours and downed a long shot of Scotch before seeking Grace out in her studio. He remembered, clearly, finding her fast asleep in the bedroom, clambering under the sheets and pulling her to him.

His mind had still been reeling, his heart still racing from the assault he had witnessed. In his wife’s loving arms he’d found some respite and oblivion.

After that first time, he’d left the security side of things in Francesco’s hands with the assertion that his partner’s men were to keep all physical damage proportionate and never to the point of no return. Ensuring his wishes were respected meant keeping a very close eye on proceedings.

Knowing no person would be killed in his name allowed him to sleep a little easier.

But as time had gone on, his sleep had become worse. It seemed as if every week someone was caught stealing from them or harassing their female staff. Then there were the drug dealers to contend with, always there, wanting to set up shop in their establishments. These scumbags he had no problem with being dealt with physically. They were nasty, malevolent creatures who deserved everything they got and he would happily throw the odd punch in himself.

These people had to be dealt with, to be taught a lesson that everyone else would understand. Even the petty thieves.

He had let it happen. He had let blood be spilled and bones broken, and told himself he was the force for good within the partnership. Usually he would tell himself that with a large glass of Scotch in hand.

If he thought it was so good, then why had he never shared any of it with Grace? It wasn’t simply to do with protecting her or because she wouldn’t understand. It was because he had known damn well she would be horrified, had known deep down that her happiness was becoming muted, the constraints of their life wearing her down.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com
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