Chapter 29 Permission
Isabella POV
“Baby, I’m being honest.” He carried the painting back to the easel. He looked at it for another moment before he turned back to me. “Do you have any others?”
“I have one that I finished during the semester. It’s the one I told you about.” “Can I see it?”
He just told me he liked my painting, but I was still nervous to show him my next one. I wasn’t a shy woman who let people’s opinions affect my life. I didn’t care what anyone thought of me, only what I thought of myself.
“Sure…” I retrieved it from the closet and handed it over. He examined it with the same interest as the previous one. He set it on his
knees and gripped it with his hands, looking at my parents standing in the vineyards with the three-story villa in the background. It was a stunning picture of Rome, the wonderful place where I spent my childhood. I’d intended to sell this piece, but I liked it so much that I might keep it for myself. My parents were role models to me, had done so much for me. One
day, they would be gone, but I would have this memory of them forever. “I like this one too.”
I sat beside him on the couch, staring at his chiseled forearms as he held the canvas. It must annoy him to stare at an image of my parents, the people whonsurvived the blood war and lived happily ever after. But he didn’t show it this time. “Thanks…”
“What else do you paint?” He set it down and leaned it against the table. “It’s usually people on landscapes. Only Italy, since I’ve never been anywhere else. But the people of this country love and appreciate their land. Maybe I’ll travel around the country and paint different places every summer, like Lake, and other places that people adore. And then I can put them in my gallery and hope someone buys them.”
“Someone will buy them,” he said. “And I think that’s a great idea. Why don’t you open this gallery now?”
“I don’t have the money, for starters. And two, I don’t have any paintings to.sell.”
“You have this one.” He nodded to the paintings on the ground. “That painting could clear twenty thousand euros.”
I laughed hard because the sum was ridiculous. He kept a straight face, staring me down coldly. “I’m being serious. People pay good money for art like that. Maybe you can get even more for it.” “I appreciate you being nice to me for a change, but I’m an amateur.
I’m not at that level.”.His eyes narrowed aggressively. “One of the things I respect about you is your self-worth. You never underestimate yourself and have warned me not toNdo it either. You’re smart, resourceful, and spunky. You’re confident but never
arrogant.
You stand on that fine line and keep your balance. It’s hard for me to listen to you talk about yourself like that because it’s out of character for you.And frankly, it makes me respect you less.”
Now my eyes narrowed in hostility. “I appreciate that you think my paintings are good, but you aren’t an expert. You’re a bigger amateur than I am. Art is much more complicated than people think it is.” “I’m a customer, and I’m telling you, I’d pay big money for something like this.”
“If you weren’t sleeping with me, you wouldn’t think twice about my paintings,” I countered. “You’re blind.” “Maybe,” he said. “But if you were standing in that gallery, beautiful and
fiery, people would start pouring in men and women. It’s annoying to hear you make up excuse after excuse instead of just going for it.”
“Annoying?” I snapped. “Excuses? I need more training before I break off on my own. Only stupid, arrogant people think they know it all people like you. And that’s their downfall.”
“You’re wasting your money. There’s nothing they’re teaching you that you don’t already know.” “You wouldn’t know.” “Yes.” He nodded at the painting. “It’s pretty fucking clear. Drop out and savenyour money. Use that cash to open a gallery.”
I was embarrassed to say this next part, but I couldn’t lie about the truth. “My father pays for my education…” “Then save him money by leaving.
Start painting full time. And start selling
it. Sell it on the street if you have to.” “Because that’s classy…”
“Doesn’t your family have a winery?” he asked. “Why don’t you display your artwork there?”
It wasn’t a bad idea, especially on the weekends in the summer when the tourists flocked to the wine tastings. But hearing him pressure me into these things made me think of something else. “That plan doesn’t work if you kill me and my family. Do you make all your prisoners ambitious? Is that part of your torture?”
He stared forward and looked at the painting on the ground, the muscles near his jaw slightly shifting under the skin as he squared his mouth. His large shoulders shifted forward as he rested his elbows on his knees. His size
destroyed the cushion he was sitting on, making it sink just the way he did with my mattress. “There’s still the possibility you may kill me first. I know my baby, and I know you won’t give up until I’m dead and I expect nothing less.”
Dante lay on the couch, his full length reaching from top to bottom. His feet even hung over the edge a bit. Just in his boxers, he was mostly naked. I lay on top of him because there was nowhere else to lie. I was in my panties because that was the only thing he allowed me to put on after he fucked me
on my bed. A blanket was pulled over my body to keep me warm, but Dante didn’t need the warmth because he was his own furnace.
The TV was on, and we watched it together.
Like a couple. One hand was propped under his head while the other rested on the small of
my back. I didn’t know when he was leaving, but it didn’t seem like it was anytime soon.
I had to leave for my parents house tomorrow. That way, I would be there by ChristmasbEve. I should have left sooner, but his unexpected visit caught me off guard. I figured he’d have to get back home or to work, but he continued to linger. I propped myself up on his chest, my forearms resting against his hard abs,
and looked down at him. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”
He turned his gaze away from the TV and looked at me. “Where are you going?”
I didn’t like being questioned, like I was reporting to him. “Home for Christmas.”
“Christmas isn’t for a few days.”
“Well, I want to be there by Christmas Eve.”
“You leave Christmas Eve morning.” He turned back to the TV like the conversation was over.
“What just happened here?”
He turned back to me, his eyes pretty in comparison to his cruel face.
“You don’t tell me what to do. You don’t give me permission. That’s not how this works.”