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Another trigger for my PTSD.
It was a scent that used to set off a series of flashbacks and panic attacks. But lately, it comforted me.
“Who was that man?” I glanced up at Bastian, who looked so damn peaceful. “What did your family do to his? I need to understand why I almost got raped. Why killing him turned Damian into a psycho.”
“Ever hear of the Volkov Bratva?”
I slipped out of his grasp, tucking one leg under the other, and gripped my knees. “He was Russian Mafia?”
“He was one of Volkov’s men.”
“But, why me?”
“Because you belong to us.” He gripped my hips and lifted me on top of him. “You’ll never be safe. We will always have enemies knocking at our door. But we won’t let anything happen to you.”
“You say I belong to you like I’m a possession. If this is ever going to work between us, you need to treat me like your equal.”
“You are more than my equal.” His fingers wove through my hair, his lips inches from mine. “You’re a queen.”
The next night, Marcello was back from his short mission for Salvatore Global. He didn’t offer any details, and I didn’t bother to ask. I was too excited about seeing his bedroom, which sounded so childish.
But according to Bastian, Marcello didn’t even let them on the fourth floor, not unless they were going to his father’s office. So I was kinda freaking out that he was sharing it with me.
My eyes swept over Marcello’s bedroom, taking in every inch of the space. The room had high ceilings, tall windows with dark curtains, and a balcony that overlooked the bay. He had the same room as Luca, but one floor above him.
I stood at the center of the room and noted every detail of the mural, which spanned two walls.
Marcello can paint.
A smile stretched across my face, and a strange feeling stirred in my belly. Several emotions raced through me at once—excitement, happiness, and pride. His mom would have been so proud of him. I thought about the fresco in Evangeline’s studio. With their perfect golden crowns, she saw her sons as stars, the light illuminating their handsome faces.
Smooth brushstrokes created a world that belonged to Marcello, his bedroom a testament to his raw talent. Black, red, orange, and a hint of white paint swirled across his walls. Back in Brooklyn, I had painted the Greek Underworld version of Devil’s Creek on my bedroom walls. All the devils were there. But Marcello’s muralwasthe underworld.
A man stood at the center of the skull and fire landscape, his head down, dark waves atop his head. He had snakes wrapped around his legs, slithering up his arms. What looked like a king cobra sat on his shoulder, its tongue hanging out.
“Marcello,” I stammered. “This is…” I turned to look at him, my mouth hanging open. “You’re really good.”
He winked. “We have a lot more in common than you think.”
“You could pursue an art career. We could…”
“No,” he said before I could finish. “I don’t want anyone to know.” He shook his head, dark hair falling onto his forehead. “My art is the only thing not corrupted by evil. And my father would never allow it. That’s why I don’t let anyone near this room.”
I smiled so wide my cheeks hurt. “It’s our little secret.”
Marcello’s eyes flicked back to the mural.
I studied the man with the snake wrapped around his body. “Aiden painted something like this years ago.”
Marcello nodded. “You know the mural behind the bakery? We did it together.”
I lifted my brows. “The one in Beacon Bay?”
“Yeah. It was Aiden’s idea.”
I wrapped my fingers around his wrist and looked up at him. He was so beautiful, I wanted to cry.Lonely Boy. Now it all made sense. Artists were natural introverts, content with cutting themselves off from the world.
The loneliness suited him.
