She opened it, smoothing the well-formed creases flat against her thigh.
Never again.
Drawing in a deep breath, she relived the moment when she had written the words, and prickles darted across her skin.
After fleeing Andrew’s rage, she’d moved back home with her mum. In her childhood bedroom, she had sat at the desk where she used to do her homework as a little girl and let the tears fall; tears of fear, tears of relief.
Searching for a scrap of paper in the first drawer, she had found whatever was at arm’s reach. Wiping her flushed damp cheeks with her sleeve, she had formed the two words – a future reminder of the fact she wouldn’t let herself fall prey to the hands of anyone. No. Never again.
As she went to fold the paper for the first time, she had realised that it hadn’t been scrap, after all; it was a page from a series of lecture notes on the work of Caravaggio and his artistic style,chiaroscuro: the play of light and dark. Printed on the other side of the page was a painting, violent and gory, yet Stella couldn’t think it more perfect at the time. It embodied the rage which had bubbled beneath her skin, her fervent desire to take control of her life, and the courage she had known she needed to muster in order to bring about that change. It was destiny, she had thought, that the painting would now be linked to her terrible misfortune.
Stella’s focus drew back within herself.
Vincent had played her all along. The sweet notes. The pressure to be exclusive, and from so early on. The well-timed and calculated career support. Alejandro Ortega. It stabbed at her spirit, one jab after another. It had been well-masked behind those blue eyes, long legs . . . And it wasalltoo familiar.
Stella didn’t feel sad or upset; just numb from the shock of it all. They hadn’t been together long enough for her to build any deep romantic feelings. But it had beensomething– enough to make her vulnerable and let her guard down, and for that she was disappointed in herself. Marcella had picked it and tried to warn her, but Stella wouldn’t see reason.
This is your pattern isn’t it? You’re the common denominator, Stella.
She watched as the worry moved past her mind. And for the first time, she challenged it.
No. This has nothing to do with me. This is his bullshit. I was his convenient target.
Something about acknowledging the shift in her thought pattern bolstered her. Was it growth? Had she matured? Perhaps it hadn’t been a complete loss, after all.
It was then, with her confidence strengthened and her spirit defiant, that she had the most upsetting realisation: Marcella and Marco had been targeted too.
Marcella.
Her ‘sister’, there through thick and thin. Aseternallysupportive as Rome itself. And he dared drive a wedge between them. The tension. The discord. Flashes of Marcella’s frustrated expression on the street during their heated post-pigeon fiasco exchange taunted Stella.
He knew exactly what he was doing. Ugh!
And Marco.
Beautiful, sweet,gorgeousMarco.
Vincent had tried to brainwash her against him. Stella probed at her memories for clarity. Clearly, Vincent had seen something pure and honest in their relationship. Or, quite simply, in him. For Vincent, there was something dangerous about Marco.
Marco, the threat.
Her pulse quickened as her numbness morphed into anger. And she wouldn’t let it slide. Not any of it; not like she had done with Andrew.
Now, sat quietly in the Uffizi, her eyes returned to the gruesomely painted scene hanging on the wall. The printed copy Stella held in her now trembling hands was much smaller than the original. A label below the image read:Artemisia Gentileschi, ‘Judith Beheading Holofernes’, 1620c.
Smiling to herself, Stella finally understood what she had to do.
A light shower had taken up residency over Florence, gently kissing the city and its people with life-restoring rain. Stella’s walk back to Carlotta’s apartment was hurried not due to the weather, but rather on account of the new acquisition tucked under her arm.
Rounding the corner of Via del Moro, Stella spotted Marcella sitting under the awning of thetrattoriaon the ground floor of Carlotta’s palazzo. Cigarette in hand, she was clearly surprised to see Stella so soon.
Before Marcella was able to comment, Stella barked, ‘Upstairs. Now!’
Marcella inhaled a final drag of her cigarette and tossed the butt aside. Following Stella up the stairs, she arrived puffing and sweaty.
Ushering Marcella and Carlotta to the kitchen table, Stella stood tall and proud. They took their seats, waiting with wide-set eyes.
‘What’s going on?’ Carlotta asked as Stella furiously cleared the table of its clutter.
