MasukOn my birthday, my mafia husband, Alessandro, didn't come home to celebrate with me. He sent a bodyguard with a bouquet of wilting roses and a text message: [Picked these myself from the garden. Happy birthday, love.] A moment later, his right-hand woman, Chloe, posted an Instagram story. It was a fifty-thousand-dollar custom flower box, filled with black roses, their petals embedded with crushed diamonds. The caption read: [My Capo says, "If you love me, you show me devotion that never dies."] I didn't storm the casino to confront him. I just packed my bags and prepared to leave the city. The first day I was gone, word got back to me that Alessandro couldn't care less. He blew a ring of cigar smoke and said, "The world out there is dangerous. She'll be back in a few days, begging me to take her back." The first month I was gone, Alessandro tracked me down with an international call. "I'll buy you a villa in the Heights. Just come back, okay?" But a villa was never what I wanted.
Lihat lebih banyakIn the days that followed, Alessandro didn't leave. He didn't go back to New York.In the morning, someone would deliver my favorite breakfast, with a card in his handwriting.At noon, a wall of white roses would be delivered to my Notting Hill apartment, the same kind he held in his hands when I first saw him behind that little tavern in the Bronx seven years ago.At night, I'd open Instagram to find various new accounts showering my posts with gifts.I blocked every IP and account, but for each one I blocked, a new one would appear. I'd block five, and he'd create a sixth.On top of that, I noticed that whenever I went out, a man in a trench coat would follow me from a distance.Once, in an unfamiliar city, someone had tried to snatch my purse while I was out buying coffee. He had promised me then that whenever I left his territory, he would have someone protect me.This had to stop.I needed a quiet space to create, I had an exhibition to prepare for. I couldn't let him consume my l
The color drained from Alessandro's face.Mia had called me the night before.She said Chloe had been in his ear for days, whispering that I'd only stormed out because I was holding out for more money.That's why he made that call, trying to buy me back.He never imagined I already knew everything.I took out my phone, pulled up the Instagram story, and turned the screen toward him.[My Capo said, to love me is to give me a devotion that never wilts.]His eyes were glued to the screen for a few seconds. "I—""If I told you it was just an act, part of playing the game, would you believe me?""She was a useful pawn. I never cared about her..."I laughed out loud."Look at you. The great Capo of the East Side, reduced to this.""Do you even believe the words coming out of your own mouth?""Alessandro, cheating is cheating. Own it.""I can give you and Chloe my blessing.""Sienna, I'm begging you, don't say that."This time, tears streamed down his face. A man who could order the execution
My finger was on the hang-up button, about to press it, when he suddenly spoke again."You knew," Alessandro's voice was hoarse."Sienna, I'm sorry. I can explain...""The thing with Chloe... it was an act. All of it. Just Family business they pushed on me.""I was drunk, looking for a thrill...""Stop," I cut him off. "You don't have to explain yourself to me.""I'm never coming back. I don't believe a single word you say anymore. I only believe what I've seen with my own eyes.""Don't be like this, just let me finish..."There was something in his voice I had never heard before, something close to a plea."I'll wire half a million dollars to your account today. I'll buy you a mansion, I'll..."I laughed. I couldn't help it. Even now, he thought this was a negotiation.It reminded me of the old saying: there are none so blind as those who will not see.I didn't say anything else. I just ended the call.The next day, Marcus arranged for me to visit a private gallery.The owner wanted t
After settling in London, Marcus found me a studio in Chelsea.It was south-facing, with great light.He told me not to rush an exhibition, to focus instead on creating a new body of work.So every day, I opened the door to white walls, the smell of turpentine, and a BBC station playing cello music at a low volume.I started painting London.The rainy-day market on Portobello Road, an old man eating a sandwich on a bench in Hyde Park, and a red-haired girl holding a cat on her balcony in Notting Hill.After a month, I scanned the works into my computer and casually posted a few on Instagram.I never expected them to go viral.The first painting was of the Camden Canal at dawn. An art blogger reposted it with the caption:[This artist's paintings tell a story. You can feel the loss in the way she paints the light.]Thousands of comments poured in. By that evening, my follower count was soaring.That night, I was scrolling through the people who had liked the post. When I got to the very












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