Bloody Painter Novels & Stories

"There were others much younger than her who thrived, even in the Council. We are done talking!" Another man steps forward with a glass, punctures the toothless prisoner's flesh, and fills his glass with blood. My chest heaves and I freeze. My knees buckle as violent tremors shoot through my body. Cold sweat drips down my back. In my ears beats the rhythm of my heart. I swoon at the sight of so much blood. But the man with blue eyes and a warm voice holds me steady when I sway. What in heaven is happening here?

Red and black. It shouldn’t startle me, but it did. Cause some of them were lewdly drawn. If you have no idea about Ralph Romano–consider yourself lucky among a limited amount of people, cause Ralph Romano’s disaster. A living alive spawn of satan–no–the devil himself. He paint with blood and conveys screams in his paintings, he was a world-renowned artist respected by many as well as feared. Including me. I hated him.

And what is happening in there town? They don't understand at all, and why this horrible act is happening in their town? All of them stood there stretching there head in confusion; trying to figure out why people are dying, and who is responsible for this terrible action, from that day forward they called it BLOODY DAY! To me, this is a big mystery that can't never be solved. ( This Story continued) ATTENTION READERS: This book have different series book 2-9

I grabbed the huge canvas and my paints without bothering to tie my hair up. Colors collided on the canvas, raw and wild. Rage mixed with sorrow, bleeding into every stroke—red for the fury in the background, black for the emptiness, lines in the red, white for the hollow ache blending with the blue, brown for the weight of it all. But...Blue surged, sharp and piercing, until his image actually emerged. Not the man himself, but his eyes. Those cruel, calculating blue eyes that knew exactly how to lie. The image spoke...as if it was actually him on the other side—laughing at me, cruelly.

I’ve found several stains of blood while seeing Papochka entering the home with a gun. There’s a rumour in the house that my Baboo used to paint with human blood. Even the sarcastic and fun-loving Papa Killian often loses his calm and beats the guards to pulp. Still, I’ve seen those people scroll past headlines soaked in blood and sip their coffee. Maybe we’ve all become too comfortable in our indifference, too fluent in detachment. Maybe monsters don’t hide under our beds anymore, they sit beside us, perfectly calm, chewing gum and asking what’s for dinner.

I had thought the first time we met had to be an accident. I tried to pay full attention as each painting was called and bid on. Until my painting was called, sitting in front of these strangers was a painting of Bloom’s scan, only that it was masked in red and blue. Red signified my loss and the disconnection between us now. Blue stood for the hope her once-existing love had given me—that my baby had chosen me as her mother. She was the only love I knew. “This painting is by Phoenix, called The Unending Love. It is going for a million dollars.” Mr Billy informed.

Before him, a projector displayed slides of Sheina Blake’s latest paintings. He stared at a painting dominated by maroon and dark black. There were white streaks in the center that looked like hands trying to reach for something, yet drowning. "If your life is so happy, why do you paint so many stories of suffering, Sheina?" Damian whispered to the screen. Suddenly, the double doors of his office swung open without a knock. Sharp, authoritative footsteps echoed across the marble floor. Damian did not need to turn to know who had arrived. The heavy scent of Classic Rose perfume immediately filled the room.

WARNING SIGNS: LANGUAGE THAT IS UNAMBIGUOUS CURSING VIOLENCE, GUN VIOLENCE SELF-INFLICTED HARM BLOOD, DECEASE, and GORE LUCA POV No more tears streamed down his face as he sank to the ground. That's when I saw the blood splattered on the blue painting that Valentina liked. Fucking hell, it's ruined now. I remember it was quite expensive too. I climbed the marble staircase, with several guards trailing me.

She shivered as he called her what he always used to call her. “I am not going to kill you, but you see, I can kill for you. And I won’t stop, until you come home with me. So,” He wiped his face and his hands were bloodied now, his face resembled a devil’s face. He rubbed the blood in his hands and wiped them off on hers. She tried to retract her hands, but he held them tightly, painting them red. He was acting like a sadist, a maniac and her eyes were shedding so many tears she had no idea she owned this many. “If you don’t want me to paint your entire body with blood, let’s go home.”

This painting held so many memories that I didn't know how I moved from my seat or how I stood before the painting caressing it. “It's the original work of the not so famous artist, and mafia heir, may his soul rest in peace, Devon,” someone explained behind me, I didn't care to turn… I didn't want to, knowing that the fallen house of Devon was entirely my fault. I had played along with them, then at the last minute I struck, erasing the only mafia family that accepted me, except the Xavier's — it was my duty. I had to. My hands trembled as I felt the beautiful and smooth texture of the painting. I stared at the black and white painting; a little girl staring into a dark tunnel while holding