AllFreeNovel
Share Us
CHAPTER25
Sophia
Downstairs, I’m about to call for Enzo when I’m struck by a sudden thought. I do a slow turn in the foyer, taking in this massive house and all the rooms I’ve explored. I swear I’ve seen every corner of this place, including the basement one time to fetch a bottle of wine from the cellar.
My gaze shifts skyward. A mansion like this must have an attic, right? In one of these rooms there has to be a clue to Roman’s past. What did Nik steal from him that’s so precious he’s spent all these years hating the man?
I have no doubt Roman was involved with Nik’s death, even if not directly, he had a hand in bringing it about. Which is fine by me. The world is a better place without a man like Nikolai Kozlov in it.
The question remains: What did Nik steal and then return to Roman? Broken.
I may never find the answer, but I can dig a little deeper. Where does someone like Roman stash his secrets?
My first thought is… He doesn’t, he destroys them. He leaves no trace of any evidence that can later come back to haunt him. Except that his grudge against Nik has held on this long. I wonder if remnants of this object remain. Six years is a long time to hold onto hatred without something as a reminder to continue fueling it.
Could that reminder be in this house? In this country refuge?
The attic. It’s the only space I haven’t explored. If I don’t find anything up there, then I doubt I’ll ever know the truth.
Roman says it’s over now that Nik’s dead. But is it?
Retracing my steps, I ascend the stairs and keep going, up and up. On the third floor, I search around for a while before finding a hidden door set into the paneling. If I wasn’t specifically looking for it, I never would have known it was there. Which is probably how I’ve walked past it a hundred times and never noticed it before.
On the other side is a narrow spiral staircase that leads into an enormous attic. Faint sunlight filters in through high set windows in the vaulted ceiling. Dust particles float in the air. I sneeze.
Purposefully, I take in the entirety of the space. Old furniture and boxes of storage crowd most of the floor. I weave through it, scanning, unsure of what exactly I’m looking for. A clue? To what?
Something out of place perhaps?
In all honesty, this search is probably futile. I doubt there’s anything up here other than old and forgotten things. This dusty attic isn’t the kind of place one stashes priceless objects.
What was I thinking? My thought to search here was a whim, it can’t do any harm.
My footprints form clear outlines in the dust, telling me that no one has been up here in a very long time. Maybe years. So whatever has kept Roman’s hatred alive is not here. Otherwise, he or one of the staff would have come through here on occasion. Right?
I reach the opposite end of the space, then pivot, going back the way I came. That’s when I spot the picture frames. They’re stacked against one wall, behind an enormous armoire that hid them from view when I entered.
So Roman does own artwork. I knew he had to have some art somewhere. What is it doing up here instead of on the walls? Did he take it down for some reason?
I make my way to the framed canvases, dust off the first one, and spin it around to see the front.
I stare, mouth agape, because I certainly wasn’t expecting to find this. The painting is the portrait of a handsome man with dark hair and yellow hazel eyes. He’s young and mirthful, hope and optimism and…love show clearly on his features.
The painting is so life-like, I reach out and touch it, smoothing my fingertips across his sharp jawline.Roman. Again, a much younger, happier Roman.
My gaze falls to the bottom corner where the artist signed the piece with the initials ODL. It’s not a self-portrait, so that rules Roman out as the artist. Yet I have no doubt the D and L stand for De Luca. But who is O? His mother’s name is Isabella, ruling her out too. His late wife, maybe?
I realize that I don’t know her name. Roman has never once uttered her name aloud.
As I stare at his portrait, snippets of information begin to fall into place like pieces of a puzzle. Assuming O is his late wife… She was an artist. Roman doesn’t hateart, he’s hiding from the pain of losing his first wife. Art must remind him of her.
I see why when I dig deeper into the stack of framed canvases and find still life paintings, landscapes, and a couple more portraits. They are absolutely stunning. So realistic that I feel instantly transported to those locations, or like I’m looking through a window to another place. She must have lived and breathed painting to have become this skilled.
He must have loved her very much.
Jealousy claws at my chest. Then I remember how he took me to theLouvre. Given what I found, he sacrificed so much to take me there, that must have been incredibly difficult for him to do. To be surrounded by artwork that reminds him of the woman he once loved.
But he did it for me. He suffered through it to be there with me. I can only imagine his pain.
