Chapter Four: The Damaged Canvas

  (Isabella’s POV)

  

  The study became my world. The vast penthouse, with its cold marble and silent corridors, faded away. My entire existence narrowed to the damaged canvas and the silent, watchful presence of the man who had entrusted it to me.

  

  A fragile, unspoken truce formed between us. The air in the study was different—thicker, more intimate. It was a space outside the roles of captor and captive. Here, he was not the Don, and I was not the peace treaty. We were just two people connected by a shared, broken past.

  

  I began the painstaking work. I spent days just studying the canvas, documenting the damage, testing tiny, hidden spots for solvent reactions. The process was slow, meditative. It required a patience and focus that allowed me to temporarily silence the grief and fear that were my constant companions.

  

  Alessandro would come in late at night. He never spoke. He would simply stand in the doorway, a glass of whiskey in his hand, and watch. His presence was no longer just a weight; it was a silent vigil. I could feel his intense focus on my hands as I carefully cleaned away a century of grime or prepared the delicate canvas backing for repair.

  

  One evening, as I worked late, he appeared in the doorway not with a glass, but with a tray. On it were two cups of coffee and a plate of biscotti. He set it on the table beside me without a word and retreated to his usual spot. My hand trembled as I reached for a cup. It was a simple gesture, but in our silent world, it felt monumental. It was an offering of comfort, an acknowledgment of my work. It was the first time he had ever served me.

  

  As I worked on the painting over the next few weeks, I felt a shift in my own feelings that terrified me. My hatred for him, once a solid, protective wall, was beginning to crumble. I saw the deep-seated loneliness in him, the immense burden he carried. I saw the way his eyes would soften when he looked at the slowly healing portrait of his mother. I was seeing the man, not the monster, and it was dangerously seductive.

  

  One afternoon, while carefully examining the canvas backing under a magnifying lamp, ready to begin the delicate process of aligning the torn fibers, I saw it again. The notation I’d glimpsed before. Now that the area was cleaned, it was clearer. 18-L-3-20. My father's precise, familiar handwriting.

  

  My blood ran cold. This wasn't a coincidence. My father, the Falcones' bookkeeper, had left a mark on a De Luca family heirloom. How was that possible? Had he seen this painting before? A thousand questions exploded in my mind, but one screamed louder than the rest: Why?

  

  I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. This painting held more than just Alessandro's ghosts. It held a secret. A secret my father had died to protect, or perhaps, one that had gotten him killed. And I was living in the house of the man at the center of it all. The trust I was beginning to feel for Alessandro warred with a new, sharp-edged suspicion. I was no longer just mending a canvas; I was uncovering a conspiracy.