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DearDiary,
We buried Mother today. I’m numb. I watched them lower her box into the ground and felt nothing. There’s just been so much lately. Francis—his disappearance and then being found later at the Pits. And now Mother, not six months later, in a car bombing.
A fucking bomb.
After the funeral, I watched our men walk around the family’s car with mirrors, making sure our undercarriage hadn’t been rigged while we were busy grieving.
Why are men like this? Women aren’t so brutal. We’re mean in other ways. Emotional ways.
Look at me the wrong way? Just call me Jolene.
Snub me at a party? Oops, how did those nudes go public?
But men…they don’t hesitate to cut and maim and kill.
I miss my mother.
Afterbeingraisedinthe Palisades mansion, I got sick of living in opulent, dark homes. My home was ridiculous, a testament to the Scarpetta family’s wealth and might. Privacy was nonexistent, with staff and soldiers around every corner, and with the exception of the sunroom that opened out to the rear gardens, it felt like the only windows were forever covered up with thick velvet drapes.
I hated it. I was an artist. I needed the light. I craved it.
The Marzano mansion, to which I was a frequent visitor during that brief time when it seemed like there might be an alliance with Luca, told a similar story. It was luxurious. Magnificent, even, with marble-tiled floors and gold-plated fixtures.
Evie O’Hanlon was welcome to it. It would never be for me. I wanted something that breathed light and air. Something simple. No…I didn’t want that. Ineededit.
My apartment in Soho, rented years ago while I was still living in New York, and the only piece of my former life I had held onto, is a response to that.
It’s nothing fancy. Located in an older, historic neighborhood, one interior wall is aged red brick, while its opposite is plain white plaster.
It’s a straightforward design. An unpretentious apartment that could belong to anyone. It’s not anything one would expect to find a Mafia princess to own, and all the more precious for that. It’s important purely because it’s mine, and mine alone.
At first, I rented it when I turned twenty-one and had moved out in an attempt to gain some independence by living on my own. It was a comical effort, as Father was paying my rent, but we pretended I was an independent woman all the same. I was deep in a relationship with Luca and wanted my privacy, so an apartment was a necessity—for all of the ten months we lasted before Father sent me to California.
After I moved to LA and started making my own money, I bought it outright as an affirmation of my independence.
That’s what it remains now. It’s more than just an apartment. It’s a place for me to be myself. To take the gun off my hip, the heels off my feet, and let myself be vulnerable.
I run my hand across the comfortable floral pattern of my La-Z-Boy recliner, which clashes perfectly with the buffalo plaid sofa. My mother would choke on her diamonds if she saw them. I can hear her now.
So pedestrian.
Someone in our family shouldn’t have such plebeian tastes. I should be using Michael Dawkins or Vitra. Sometimes, though, a chair just needs to be a chair, not an expression of the might and wealth of a Mafia family.
In the brick wall, a window overlooks the courtyard at the building’s rear. With excellent light throughout most of the day, it’s the perfect spot to set up my easel and a thick tarp underfoot to protect the hardwood from my inevitable spills.
I move to stand there now, picking up a thin brush to hold lengthwise between my teeth, and contemplate the canvas in front of me. “What do you think, Baccio? A little light over here, eh?” Baccio, in a sprawl at my feet, pricks his ears but doesn’t otherwise move. “Not helpful, dog.”
We’ve had a lovely, lazy day, one that’s fading rapidly into evening.
The other two apartments on my floor are being remodeled for sale, so my current situation is ideal—only privacy, privacy, and more privacy to worry about. I’ve spent the day walking around in a cami and a pair of boy-cut underwear, checking in with my team out west and trying not to think about how shitty it’s going to be if I decide to go through with my father’s plan.
And making a shit ton of progress on this painting.
I’m about done for the day, but there’s something bothering me about it. Tilting my head, I study it...the strokes, the colors.
Its vibrant colors swirl together, blending into two dark green pools just off-center. After dropping the skinny brush, I lift my wine and sip, then pick up a black Sharpie. My favorite method at the moment is to layer the canvas with paint and then add detail with a marker. Odd, but strangely effective.
I have a plan for those two deep green pools, but looking at them now, I can’t bring myself to change them. There’s something about them…
