AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I’m the second-youngest daughter in a family that was ruled by my father, Bryant, until my oldest brother Lucian took over. It was a whole thing that led to many bristling silences at family dinners until Lucian laughed and changed the subject. When Robert looks at me, he doesn’t see me, the artist. He sees my father lurking in the background. Lucian, with all the power of Morelli Holdings behind him, and a reputation for cold calculation and colder vengeance. He’s never hurt me, but sometimes, when he thinks no one’s paying attention, I can see how much he’d rather be taking people apart to see what makes them tick.
But people like my father or Lucian or even my oldest sister pale in comparison to Leo.
I know what people say about him. I heard whispers at school. By my senior year of college, Leo had become a subject of debate. On the one hand, he’s been known for a long time as the Beast of Bishop’s Landing—a snapping, snarling person who won’t control his temper and uses his rage against people.He’s violent,a girl whispered once in an oil painting seminar.I heard he kills people on the way into the office every morning.The person she was talking to laughed.That’s not what I’ve heard. I’ve heard he’s a rich asshole who’s good at real estate, like all the rest of them. My dad signed a deal with him last week. Said it was fine.
Never mind the city’s conflicted views on what he’s actually like. Leo wasn’t about to let his reputation stand between me and the rest of the city. He came here himself.
On my move-in day he visited the gallery and interrogated Robert. Then he came upstairs and stalked between the rooms until I thought I’d lose my mind. He finally stopped at my window and looked down at the street.
He wasn’t happy. He was worried. I could see it in the way he stood, tall and tense, scanning the traffic below. Guilt gnawed at my insides. I wanted to tell him I’d changed my mind. That he could find me another place. He’s my favorite brother. I wanted to make him happy. It would have been easy.
“It’s not that bad of a neighborhood,” I’d said.
He looked me in the eye with the same focus he’d used to watch the street, his dark eyes a match for mine. “Are you sure you want to live here?”
Yes. I was sure then, and I’m sure now. The very next day a crew arrived at the building across the street. They gutted the apartment on the second floor. They hadn’t been finished for five minutes when the security team started setting up. This is the one thing Leo won’t compromise on, no matter how many times I tell him I’m perfectly safe here. The team stays.
Eva doesn’t understand why I want this place so much. Guilt expands in my throat. I’ve said no to them so many times since I graduated in May, but they can’t—or won’t—stop asking. Eva offers me a spare bedroom. Two spare bedrooms, if I want a studio. And Leo offers more money. Apartments overlooking Central Park. My own gallery. He doesn’t want me to worry about money.
It would be nothing to him. I know. He could support me for the rest of my life and never feel a pinch, because my brothers are awash in money. They wield it like they wield power. They’re confident in it. It’s theirs.
I want my own. My own money. My own apartment. My own way in the world. Anything else feels like drowning.
The heat kicks on, rustling my lace curtains. My two rooms plus bathroom are small and dusty, big enough to paint in but not much else, and I love it here. I love the knitted blanket I keep on the back of the couch and the tea kettle I got at an antique store and the bay window in the bedroom. I wedged a full-size mattress at the very back so I’d have more room for my easel and all my paints.
I breathe through the nagging guilt. It’s worse whenever I feel irritated by my siblings, especially Leo, especially the things he does to keep me safe. They’re not new. He’s been protecting me for as long as I can remember. And not from imagined threats. From very real people who lived in our house.
Enough of that. I’ve had a request for a commission.
I take out my phone, pull the blanket over my lap, and google the beach. Send my brother a text.
Daphne: I sold a painting today!!
I do not send a second text about the note. It feels wrong not to tell him, but telling him will turn this into a big deal.
Crescent Cove turns out to be a cove—pretty on the nose—with a tiny stretch of public beach in the middle surrounded on either side by private beaches. It’s a fancy little town about an hour away. Nothing dangerous about it. The beach will be empty this time of year. Perfectly safe.
Leo: You’ll be world-famous by spring.
A commission. I got a commission today. I’m ordering dinner for that. It’s worth celebrating. Dinner and Netflix, and tomorrow, a trip to the beach.
Chapter Three
Emerson
The report onmy painter arrives in my inbox at the same time the painting arrives on my doorstep. A man in a thick, Army-green coat wraps his hands around the sides of the canvas, squeezing tight to keep it from falling. I don’t want him touching it. Not even through the protective wrapping. I step back to let him into the foyer.
“Where do you want it?” His eyes dart around the room, but there’s nothing to see. The entry table and matching chair in a dark cherry wood that warms in afternoon light. My dining table in the space to his left. The closed doors to a study. Behind us is the living room, but he won’t be going there. I don’t allow the impatience to grow. It’s expected, of delivery people, that they can’t control their need to stare.
“Here is fine.” He steadies it against the entry table and turns back. I already have his tip in hand. Another person has been in my space too long, and the email taunts me from the top of my inbox. Curiosity is a dry scorch at the back of my throat.
I don’t give in.
Yet.
The delivery man steps out onto the porch. When the door’s locked behind him, I move to the dining room window. The truck starts with a rumble, and he guides it around the circle drive and toward the gate. It opens for him, and only when it’s closed again do I allow myself to return to the painting.
I take it into the dining room and remove the coverings. It’s a mid-size piece, perhaps four feet across. I brace myself against any emotion at all. It’s possible, though not likely, that I will feel differently about the piece now that it’s here. Now that it’s mine.
