Chapter 6: Canvas and Shadows (Alessio’s POV)

Chapter 6: Canvas and Shadows (Alessio’s POV)

I couldn’t breathe in that bedroom anymore.

The sheets still smelled like him—like sex and scotch and that dark, addictive thing Luca carried around like cologne. Every time I closed my eyes I felt his hands pinning my wrists, heard that low growl in my ear: *So fucking good for me.*

I hated how much I wanted to hear it again.

So I fled to the only place that had ever been mine: art.

The guest room—my room, supposedly—had a wide desk by the window. I’d unpacked my supplies the first night, before everything went to hell. Canvas, oils, brushes. The one constant in a life where everything else got taken away.

It was late afternoon now, the penthouse quiet. Luca had disappeared into his office after we got back from the family lunch, door closed, phone calls muffled. Probably pretending I didn’t exist. Fine. I could pretend too.

I set up a fresh canvas, squeezed out paint—deep crimson, indigo, burnt umber. Angry colors. I didn’t plan. Just attacked the blank space with broad strokes, letting the brush bite into the fabric.

The city sprawled outside the glass, all sharp edges and cold light. I painted that first: jagged skyscrapers bleeding into a bruised sky. Then darker shapes—silhouettes of men with guns, hands reaching, mouths open in silent screams. And in the center, two figures locked together. One taller, broader. One defiant, reaching back even as he fought.

I didn’t need to look in a mirror to know who they were.

Hours slipped away. My shoulders ached. Paint smeared my fingers, my forearms, even a streak across my cheek when I pushed hair out of my eyes.

I didn’t hear the door open.

But I felt him.

That prickle on the back of my neck. The shift in the air when Luca Rossi entered a room.

I didn’t turn around.

He stood in the doorway for a long minute, silent. Watching.

Finally: “You paint.”

Observant as ever.

I dragged the brush through a thick line of black, slashing across the canvas. “Brilliant deduction.”

Another pause. Footsteps. Slow. He came closer, stopping just behind me. Close enough that I could smell him again. Close enough that heat radiated off his body.

I kept painting, faster now. Defensive.

“It’s good,” he said quietly.

My hand faltered. Just for a second.

I laughed under my breath. “You don’t know anything about art.”

“I know what I see.”

I turned then. He was closer than I expected—arms crossed, eyes fixed on the canvas. Not on me. Yet.

The painting was raw. Violent. Sexual, even—the way the two central figures twisted together. You could feel the hate and the want in every stroke.

His jaw was tight.

I wiped my hands on a rag, smearing more paint. “Like what you see, husband?”

His gaze flicked to me. Dark. Unreadable.

“You put us in it.”

Not a question.

I shrugged. “Therapy’s expensive.”

Something shifted in his eyes—anger, maybe. Or recognition.

He stepped closer, reaching out. I thought he’d touch the canvas. Instead, his fingers brushed the streak of paint on my cheek, thumb lingering.

“You missed a spot.”

My breath caught. Stupid. I hated my body for reacting.

I tried to pull away. He didn’t let me. His hand slid to the back of my neck, grip firm. Possessive.

“You’ve been avoiding me since this morning,” he said, voice low.

“You called last night a mistake. Pretty clear message.”

His thumb stroked the nape of my neck—slow, deliberate. “I was wrong.”

Two words. Simple. They hit harder than any praise he’d whispered in bed.

I searched his face. “Was that an apology?”

“It was a fact.”

I laughed, sharp. “Close enough for a Rossi, I guess.”

His eyes dropped to my mouth. “You’re still angry.”

“Furious,” I admitted. “But not just at you.”

He waited.

I exhaled. “I’ve spent my whole life being the family disappointment. The queer one. The artist. The spare. And now I’m the peace treaty. I’m tired of being something someone else uses.”

His grip tightened—not painful. Grounding.

“You’re not a thing,” he said roughly. “Not to me.”

My heart stuttered.

He leaned in, forehead almost touching mine. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, Alessio. This—” He gestured between us. “—it scares the shit out of me. But pretending I don’t want you scares me more.”

I swallowed hard.

His voice dropped to that dangerous whisper. “You were perfect last night. So fucking perfect. And I ruined it.”

There it was again. Praise. Deliberate now. Weaponized.

My knees went weak.

I gripped his shirt to stay upright. “You’re an asshole.”

“Yeah.” His lips brushed my temple. “But I’m your asshole.”

I laughed despite myself—breathless, broken.

He kissed me then. Slow. Deep. Not taking. Asking.

I kissed back, paint-stained hands sliding up his chest, leaving smears on his pristine shirt.

When we broke apart, foreheads pressed together, he murmured, “Show me how you do it.”

“What?”

“Paint.” His hand slid down my arm, fingers intertwining with mine around the brush. “Show me.”

So I did.

We stood like that—him behind me, chest to my back, his hand guiding mine on the brush. Adding shadows. Deepening the crimson. Turning violence into something almost tender.

His breath was warm on my neck.

“You’re good at this,” he said against my skin. “So damn good.”

I shivered, brush trembling.

He felt it. Smiled against my throat.

“Keep going, tesoro. Show me more.”

I painted until the canvas couldn’t take any more—until my legs shook and his arms were the only thing holding me up.

Then he turned me, pressed me against the desk, and kissed me until I forgot every reason this was a bad idea.

We didn’t make it to a bed this time.

But we still didn’t go all the way.

Not yet.