I can’t bring myself to part with them—notthesepieces.
I study the figure before me, my jaw tightening. I know precisely who the silhouette reminds me of, even if I refuse to speak the name aloud.
Maybe that’s the real reason I can’t sell them, the fact that, without meaning to, I pour far too much of myself into every stroke.
I put the brush down at last, exhaling as though I’ve slipped out of a trance. My shoulders ache, my fingers feel stiff, and the hem of my hoodie is freckled with dried paint.
After sessions like this, I always end up numb in a way I find almost comforting, though it never quite burns through the energy simmering beneath my skin, ready to split me open.
I tidy the space, putting caps back on tubes, brushes into the jar, the palette scraped clean for tomorrow. The room looks no less chaotic, but at least it feels like organised chaos now.
My hands are a disaster. Streaks of black, navy, and red cling to every crease.
I walk into the bathroom and turn on the tap. The water runs warm as I scrub my palms, the backs of my hands, between my fingers.
It is a slow process, the paint holds on in a way that makes it difficult to remove, and I never manage to get it fully off.
I dry my hands and step back into my bedroom just as my phone chimes, the sound slicing through the quiet.
I take it from the counter and swipe the screen open. A single message waits for me.
A single name.
New target. Location confirmed.
A slow, dark curve pulls at my mouth.
This is perfect. After all, I might finally get to bleed some of this pent up anger out of my system, before I reach the point of breaking.
Chapter 3
Octavia
Stepping out of the helicopter, the wind tearing through my hair, I nod toward the man waiting beside the landing pad.
“Adriano.”
He inclines his head, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.
Adriano is only a few years my senior—twenty-six to my twenty-two—but there’s a collected austerity about him, a defined jaw and eyes that miss nothing.
He started as one of my father’s soldiers, loyal to the Bellanti name in every possible way, born into this world, raised by a man who still serves as a soldier in our family.
Years ago, my father placed him at my side, turning him into my shadow, the first man instructed to answer directly to me.
In practice, he’s both my guard and the closest thing I have to a second in command.
A rather transparent attempt atpreparingme for the future.
My father talks about legacy as though it’s a given that I’ll take the reins one day. And he isn’t wrong.
I will.
This is mine. My family, my people. I’ll be damned if I let anyone else try to take it from me.
Traditionalists would choke on the idea of a woman leading a mafia empire. Half the old men would probably combust at the mere suggestion. But that’s a problem for another time.
“Our target is waiting for you,” Adriano says, adjusting the cuff of his jacket. “He’s being held in the old industrial building outside Hertford.”
