Chapter 73: Finding Truths

Chapter 73: Finding Truths
Isla
Anything of value had some kind of sad story to it. Some days Dante could be ruthless which made me forget he had a heart.

"So, it helped him keep his wife's memory."

"No, I helped him because if it was closed, I wouldn't have a place to come to." He stifled a smile, his eyes screamed lies. He didn't want to show emotion, typical. But I knew because he cared. Maybe he cared about his escape room more but he cared. Over time, after like an hour posing. He rolled up the canvas and kept it in a bunch of scrolls nearby.

"You are done?"

"Nop. But the finishing touches would come later, I just wanted to lay the foundations."

"Why?"

"To keep the images fresh in my head."
“And what other movement do you fund?” I asked a bit playfully. He chuckled, didn’t answer immediately. That was answer enough.
I moved deeper into his private studio, past tables cluttered with brushes and paint, past canvases in different stages of becoming. The air smelled like oil paint and clay, mixed with something softer, coffee, maybe, or wine.

It felt human. Messy. Honest.

I stopped when I saw it. A canvas.

Half-finished. Dark strokes layered over each other, forming something I couldn’t quite understand yet, but I felt it. The emotion in it. The tension. The quiet rage.
“This is yours,” I said. It wasn’t a question. Dante had gone still beside me.
For a moment, I thought he might deny it. But then he exhaled softly.

“Yes.” I turned to look at him.

This wasn’t the Dante I knew. Not the man who commanded rooms, who spoke in threats and control, who lived in a world of power and blood.

This version of him… was quieter. Exposed. I could see why he preserved that part of him. That part of him shouldn't exist in the world he was currently in.
“If you hadn't brought me here, I wouldn't have believed that you are an artist,” I said, softer now.

“Only when I need to think,” he said. His voice had changed. Lost its edge.
I looked back at the canvas. “It’s not peaceful.”

“It’s not meant to be.” A pause settled between us.

Then he reached for a brush, again. His movement was simple. Familiar, like muscle memory. I remembered how his fingers moved at ease on my skin, like he knew the maps to my soul. It was almost the same hand movements on the canvas, familiar.
He dipped his brush into a darker shade, something between black and deep blue and he stepped closer to this new canvas which seemed to be untouched for months. For a moment, he just stood there staring at it, like he was seeing something I couldn't. Then he moved, the stroke was slow, controlled, intentional.

I watched the way his hand worked, not rushed, not careless. Every movement carried weight, like he was placing pieces of himself onto the canvas.

“This place,” I said quietly, “no one here knows who you are, do they?”

“No.”

“And you want it that way?"

“Yes.” I found that difficult to believe. I studied him as every inch of him was translated with brush strokes and mild colours.

"It seems you trust them with this side of you." He squinted. "But not your world."
He didn't look at me as I made my observations. It was rare for a place to exist when someone like him came here often, yet they were oblivious to who he was. I didn't believe it.

"It seems you are doubting it." He said, I folded my hands as I leaned on the desk, while he painted. "They don't need to know that side. There would be fewer people to worry about. If any of our enemies, found out I came here and these people are aware, it just means more casualties. I can't have that." Another stroke, sharper this time. He had a point. "And Isla," he added almost as an afterthought. "that side doesn't belong here."

I frowned slightly. One would think this was one of the Made Men's hiding places. Then, I get it. It made more sense. "Because it destroys places like this." He finally turned to me, and for a moment I saw something real in his eyes. Not power, not control. Fear. My chest tightened. I looked around again, the artists outside, the unfinished pieces, and the quiet freedom that filled the room. Then my eyes found his.

"And you?" I asked. "Which side of you belongs here?" Dante's gaze flickered back to the canvas.

"The one I don't let anyone see." He began. "Except you of course." Silence fell between us again, but it was different now. He turned back to the painting, adding another softer layer, almost carefully. Like he was trying to fix something that couldn't be undone. I stepped closer without thinking, close enough to see the details. Close enough to feel it.

"What is it?" I asked. Dante didn't answer right away.

Then quietly, "It is not finished yet." I swallowed. "Hopefully, I get to finish it next time." It didn't feel like he was talking about the painting anymore. Dante took with him his unfinished painting, he kept it close to him refusing to let me see it. His eyes were ahead, as he loosely wrapped his hands around the wheel. We were closer to home now and knowing Bianca was going to be there, sent chills down my spine.

"You could just let me see the painting. Let me assess if you are as good as you claim." I knew he had sketched me but I wouldn't know about it since he liked being secretive about his private adventures.

He scoffed. Not saying a word. We were at the garage, inside the mansion. I sighed. Looking through the window, scared of what I might find inside the home that I was growing to love. "You could stay with me tonight. I don't want you to be by yourself. "
"You should be with Bianca, it makes it more believable. You don't want to give her a reason to doubt you."

I attempted to open the door when he pulled me to himself, crashing my lips with his. "I will be stepping into my new position in days. You won't have to put up with her any longer."

More promises. I hopped out of the car, finding my way to my own corner of the house. There was a new project that everyone was talking about at the office. I knew Sicario would want each of us to pitch in. I have to work on that, I had no time for silly mind games. More than I would like to, I didn't have time to think about Dante. I rushed to the closet, I divided my clothes, giving way to the secret compartment. I brought it out.
I ran my fingers through the patterns of the old leather journal, I flipped the pages, the soaked ink moving in cursive, in codes. Treading slowly to the middle of my room, the door barged open. I tried to hide the journal at my back...

Rosa who appeared, eyes widened in shock. "Don't hide it. I saw it."
"I don't know what you are talking about." I lied, avoiding eye contact. She stretched her hands, waiting to expose me. I rolled my eyes, pounding the books in her hands.
She stared at the pages in awe. "II Libro De Sangue." She muttered under her breath. Flashes of betrayal and shock filled her eyes. "Isla, why do you have this book?"