Page 161 of Mafia Obsession

Violet.

Always that color. Her personal blend. Bold, saturated, impossible to ignore. Impossible not to recognize. I trace justabove the surface, the texture familiar. I’ve touched this artwork before. I watched her build it. Watched her lose herself in it and then come alive.

I was so proud of her.

Her father didn’t see it. Didn’t see the value in being an artist. Typical fucking accountant.

“You’re going to be famous for this one,” I told her that night, holding her from behind, my hands wrapped around her belly. “Dealers will fight over you.”

She shook her head. She didn’t need my praise. “I don’t want to be fought over.”

“When I’m your husband, there will be a war, baby,” I said. “No way around it.”

That got her attention. She swallowed and kept painting. It eased her anxiety. She was becoming something. Someone. And then she vanished.

Itrustedher. That was my mistake. She betrayed me.

A set of footsteps sounds down the hall, measured, confident. I don’t turn away from the painting until I wipe away the lone tear in the corner of my eye.

I would never let anyone see my emotions. I made that mistake once.

A sharp knock breaks the silence I’ve enjoyed for the last hour.

“Come in,” I rasp and watch my sister Ksenia and her husband, my enforcer Drago, step inside.

“Papa asked for you.” My sister looks ragged from the visit.

I run a hand down the back of my neck. “I was there earlier. He doesn’t remember shit.”

“He didn’t recognize me at first,” she adds quietly.

“Nor me,” Drago adds.

Silence stretches between us as they look at me. The two people I’m closest to now. The only ones I trust. They’re searching for something beneath the surface I don’t let anyone see. They’re wondering if I’ll be just like my father.

I plan to be worse.

“Your payment to Bedell Auctions cleared through three accounts,” Drago reports. “Laundered well. But not wellenough.”

I turn around and see Ksenia is gone.

“What did you find?” I ask Drago. “Who got the money for the painting?”

He holds my gaze. “A lawyer. Here in Chicago.”

“A lawyer?” My heart goes cold. “Name?”

“Lew Jagger.”

“I know that scumbag.” I make a fist. “He worked for De la Vega.”

Five years.

Fivefuckingyears.

I glance back at the painting. It disappeared the night she did. They all did. All her artwork. I’m slowly getting it all back. For her.

For when she comes back home. Then, I will destroy every piece as she watches. A punishment for leaving me.