Chapter 38 Cousin's Daughter
Merry
In royal families, when two children are born in line to the throne, they're sometimes called the heir and the spare. I can relate to being tied to this my whole life. Even though my family isn't royal, we're incredibly close.
Roman was the heir, and I was the spare. And I was always fine with that. I was the little girl in the family and got almost everything I wanted. I was allowed to live as far away from the family as possible, which suited me just fine.
My brother lived his life, abandoning any humanity he had; meanwhile, I grew up retaining as much of my humanity as possible.
In a family like mine, it's incredibly easy to lose yourself. But I've always known exactly who I am. And I've always known what I want. The only problem is, it's not always easy to get those things. Especially when you're the princess of the mafia family.
So, while the main advantage is that I've been able to retain most of my humanity, the disadvantage is that I've never had any freedom. My mother taught me that freedom is a luxury I can't afford. But she also taught me that there are different ways to feel free.
And one of those ways is through art. When I sculpt, draw, write, these are the only moments when I truly feel in control of the situation.
My heels click on the marble floor until I stop in front of a large canvas. Something inside me stirs. If you know what to look for, you can tell exactly what the artist was feeling when he created his work.
I look at the image of a burning house and the sun above it, which seems to be the cause of the destruction. If you look closely, the sun almost has a face, almost.
"Looks good," someone says behind me. "Is this yours?"
The voice is completely unfamiliar and unwanted. Very slowly, I turn around. And strangely, my heart stops. I don't quite understand why. He's wearing a crisp, navy blue suit with a perfectly knotted tie. A chill caresses my forearms as his gaze sweeps over my face.
His light blue eyes are crystal clear, like glass. He has short, thick, reddish-brown hair. It looks soft, soft enough to run my hands through. But I can't think about that, especially when something about him reminds me of my brother.
Dangerous, powerful. And that's definitely not good for me. He has an air of superiority about him, an air of arrogance. He's about six feet tall, tall, much taller than me.
But he's still not as tall as some of the men I see every day. And yet the arrogance of his posture and aura makes him seem so much larger, larger than life. I swallow quietly.
It takes me a few seconds to remember he asked a question.
"No, that's not it," I say, hating how breathless my voice sounds.
He smiles. It's gentle, but I can tell he's not real. And that, more than anything else, brings me back to reality.
"Wait. What makes you think this is mine?" I ask curiously. I'm just a woman strolling through an art gallery. How could he know I'm an artist? "Do you know who I am?"
"Smart girl," he says, putting his hand in his left pocket. He looks slightly impressed.
I frown. "Who are you?"
"I could tell you," he says, tilting his head to the side. "But I don't really want to."
I raise an eyebrow. "Why not?"
"Because," he drawls. "I just don't want to."
Forget his handsome face. I'm not sure I like him or his attitude.
"Okay," I say dismissively, turning back to the painting.
And yet, I feel his presence behind me. His gaze prickles the back of my neck. I know him all too well.
"What do you feel when you look at this?" he asks quietly, not leaving. "Come on, you can at least answer this question."
His tone coaxes, making me want to reveal all my secrets.
"It's unsettling," I mutter. "But also brilliant, alive. The artist seems a little narcissistic, but it's a vivid painting. He's telling a story that speaks to people. Even if it's not the same story everyone sees."
"And what story do you see now?" His voice is smooth as velvet, enveloping me in a caress. Lures me to reveal my secrets.
"I think it's sad," I say, my gaze sliding to the man in the painting, dying alone on the horizon. The sun is burning, the house is burning, and he's dying. "You can lose everything in the blink of an eye. The world takes and takes until there's nothing left to give."
"There's always something to give," he says behind me. "Even in death, we all have souls."
I smile softly. "Not every soul can be redeemed. Not everyone has a soul to give."
"Hm," he says, making a sound that I interpret as agreement. "It was nice meeting you. See you again, Rose Merry De Luca." I'm so focused on the painting that it takes me a few seconds to realize he's called me by name.
When I turn to question him, he's already gone. I notice his broad shoulders as he turns and disappears down the hallway leading out of the building.
I'm still looking that way when Daniella D'Angelo approaches. She's the gallery owner and one of my friends. She frowns, noticing the look on my face. "What's wrong?"
I'm extremely upset. "Did you see the man who spoke to me?"
"Well, I saw the side of his face. It was a very handsome face," she says with a smile.
"And you didn't recognize him?" I asked her.
She shakes her head. "No, did he say something?"
"Not exactly. But he knew who I was. And he didn't tell me who he was."
I suppose I should mention this to Roman. But if I tell my brother, he'll probably exaggerate. Ever since his nephew was kidnapped, he's been constantly worried about safety.
It took weeks before I could convince him to let me leave the house without a permanent shadow. And I'm still not sure he agreed. Knowing Roman, he probably gave me a shadow that blends in perfectly.
"If you're that upset, we could find him. Christian hooked up the CCTV system to facial recognition software. I'm sure we can succeed."
I consider saying yes, but then decide against it. I'm DeLuca. There are plenty of people in New York who know who I am. If...
It's not my family's fault, it's my art's fault. Just because he knows my name doesn't mean he wishes me ill. I don't like that he hinted at our meeting again, but in reality, no harm was done. "No, it's normal. I'm just overreacting. I'm sure it's nothing."
"Are you sure?" Danielle asks, her green eyes shining with concern.
"Yes, I'm fine," I answer with a smile. I lean forward and hug her. "Thank you. You're a good friend."