Mafia's Redemption: ILYA

꧁   This story is pure fiction ꧂

WILLA

It’s been a while since I last sat before the blank canvas and painted. For me, painting isn’t just a hobby. It’s my passion— it helps me when I’m stressed. It makes me focus and also boosts my self-esteem.

But I lost inspiration. I lost that spark.

Even stepping away, taking a vacation, doing some detox doesn’t help me anymore.

I want to give up after losing motivation, but life doesn’t end in one failure, one heartbreak, or another.

Life must go on because it’s not the end of the world, and I just have to find that spark again.

I take another deep breath as I stare at the blank canvas before me.

“You can do it.”

I force a smile, facing my assistant, Cleo, with her bag ready to go home. “I’m trying.”

“Just close your eyes and think of a muse. You can start with a landscape, a flower, a vase, or a person. You know creative inspiration doesn’t have to be standing in front of you. It can be someone or something that deeply influences your artistry or emotion.” She arches her eyebrows meaningfully. “You’re born for this, Willa.”

“Hell, no.” I crunch my nose. “Are you talking about him?”

“Perry Rhodes? Yes.” She laughs, shaking her head in amusement. “I didn’t say you paint an angel. You can go dark and sketch a demon. It’s still creativity. But he’s really into you, Willa.”

“He’s only after getting in my pants.” I roll my eyes.

“What’s wrong with that? When was the last time you went out there, got drunk, and had fun? The last time you got out was to fly.”

“Flying is rather liberating.” I look back at the blank canvas and shrug. I push the thought back in my head because I don’t want to reminisce about the last time I had so much fun and broke my heart all over again. 

I should have learned by now to protect my heart at all costs.

“Other than flying?” When I can’t answer her, she says, “Exactly. Two or three years ago. Your life is literally just this gallery and your weekend with your family.”

“My brother and his friends have private jets and choppers. Since I can’t afford one of those, why not learn to fly? It might come in handy one day.”

She shakes her head in annoyance. “Ever heard of Wabi-Sabi?”

“I heard of wasabi, but that’s not what you mean, is it?” I face her again. “Tell me about it.”

“My mom used to tell me about Kintsugi since I started showing interest in art. Wabi means simplicity and quietness. Sabi is beauty that comes with age. It’s about accepting and embracing imperfection, flaws, and impermanence.”

“It’s beautiful.” Cleo is a beautiful person, inside and out, and her black American-Japanese blood makes her so attractive, and her smile brightens the entire room.

“In metaphor, it’s about healing and trauma.”

I blink, nodding at her. She knows my struggles and what I lost three years ago. And what my family is going through right now is not even a secret anymore, considering my brother is a billionaire and his face is everywhere.

“You’re already in your overalls. Think of Kintsugi as your inspiration.” She squeezes my shoulder. “You have an excellent talent to just overshadow with pain. I can’t wait for your next art show, Willa.”

I chuckle. “You’re very optimistic.”

“I believe in you from the start, director. Why do you think I’m still here?”

“How about you? How are you holding up?”

She sighs heavily. “Hanging by a thread. There are many options, but not cheap. I’m thinking of immunotherapy, but it’s pricey in the US. I wanna take Mom to Türkiye or Germany.”

“Hey.” I reach out to her hand. “I can help.”

She smiles wistfully. “You’ve already done too much. It’s Mom who’d rather watch Mount Fuji and experience another cherry blossom season than her treatment.”

“But we’re not giving up, Cleo.”

“Yeah. Now pick up the brush because I’m going. I already locked the front door, but please, don’t sleep here again. If you really don’t like Perry Rhodes, just tell him upfront. Good night. See you tomorrow.”

“Good night.” As I hear the exit door shut close, I pick up the disposable paper palette and squeeze some acrylic paint onto it.

I close my eyes and think of my Kintsugi inspiration. My mind is blank for a while. So, put on my AirPods and let the classical music blast in my ears.

The feeling of the first smooth, fluid stroke of the brush against the canvas is riveting.

I let the music carry me away, allowing the brushstrokes to take the lead, conveying my raw emotions, my hidden thoughts of my melancholy and deep reflection through the dark, muted shades I choose.

The music plays a 70s classic rock song, releasing my control through the messy layers and drips of the colors.

A few minutes, or maybe an hour later— I lost track of time; I stare at the canvas, and it’s not a canvas anymore. It’s not nearly done, but it’s a start.

When my favorite song plays, my heart squeezes in my chest, and raw emotions simmer to the surface with the idea popping in my head— those magnificent, intense, icy aquamarine eyes shadowed with torment and pain that pierced my soul, staring back at me.

Something stops me from grabbing the filbert brush as the hair on my nape rises, instantly paralyzing me with terror.

It’s too late— a scream is trapped in my throat, echoing the shrieking alarm in my head as I turn around and face the man in a black hoodie, wearing a mask to conceal his face.

The man in black shoves me headfirst into the canvas, hurling me away, breaking the easel beneath me.

I can still hear the last line of the song before it cuts off.

“Help!” I ignore the pain from the fall and struggle against the instinct to call for help as the man starts kicking me in the abdomen and my back, which has me groaning. 

My body arches in intense pain. All I can think of is my phone and my panic button left in my office.

When he grabs my hair, tangling it around his fingers, gripping it tight, it might also rip off my skull.

I know I’m going to die. There’s no way to fight back against the man seemingly possessed by something evil, and his only reason to be here is to kill me. He punches me without remorse. I instantly taste the blood in my mouth and feel the warm liquid dripping through my nose.

Before I can even kick or punch him, he bangs my head against the floor, repeatedly, with such force. My vision spins around me, and I start seeing black spots.

“Help!” I manage to scream, thrash my legs as he presses his knee on my chest and wraps his big hands around my neck. Through my blurry vision, I still see the dark eyes filled with anger and rage staring at me as he squeezes the life out of me.

With all my strength left, I shove his face upward hard enough, and his hoodie falls off, but he’s too strong and heavy.

“Okay, baby. When you sense danger, or you feel someone is following you. The first thing you do is not to panic. You stay calm and do not go straight home. Go to the well-lit, crowded area.”

I roll my eyes, loosening his arms around me as I face him. “What if someone tries to choke me?”

“Stay calm.”

“Stay calm?” I snort, blinking at him. “He’s about to snap my neck, and I should stay calm?”

“Yes.” He grabs something from his boot on the floor. It’s a small knife. He allows me to grip it. It’s heavier than it looks and shines against the yellow light from the lamp. “You have a few seconds to find something sharp and stab the attacker in the neck or eyes.”

Before I die, I fumble into something narrow and sharp— my brush— and stab him in the neck.

I still hear his scream and feel the warm blood dripping on my hand before my consciousness fades away.