Bloody Painter Real Name Novels & Stories

Clara would not allow anyone to profane it. "What?" Harvey was the first to voice genuine confusion. "Miss Chamberlain, are you saying this painting was done by this gentleman?" "Isn't this a posthumous work by Master Remi Calsabrancho? How did it become this young man's painting?" "Exactly. Miss Chamberlain, are you sure you are not mistaken? The style, the marks, everything about it points to Remi Calsabrancho, a tragic genius who died young and left only a handful of genuine works behind."

"The painter's initials are RV. Do you know anyone with those initials?" Lea tried to remember while Eloise read the little notes on the back of the painting. "To Lea, forgive me for not being able to paint you as beautiful as the real thing. You are always beautiful. Ricky V." Suddenly Nina exclaimed. "Owh, this is a painting by Ricky Viener, the world's famous eccentric young painter." Fely nudged Nina's arm hard. She was not happy at all with the fact that Lea received such a precious gift. "Yes, that's absolutely true," said one committee member. "Wow, Ms. Lea, you are amazing. Even a world-class star looks up to you."

I seriously muttered. "Mosquito?" he said with disbelief, "Don't you dare put a fucking mosquito on my painting, Savvy." I hissed and continued to paint the small dead mosquito on his shoulder. "Maybe your blood is so delicious that the mosquitoes feasted on it, Attorney." I giggled and wrote down my signature, Sage, at the side of the canvas. "Yeah, my blood is royal and rare. They thought it was desert." He shook his head and massage his temple. "Already done, Attorney. Come on, check it."

“Wait, I almost forgot. I actually needed to tell you something.” “What is it?” Benny leaned forward again, lowering his voice like he was going to tell me a secret. “It’s about the guy you were asking about before. Remember? That Russian painting style you said you were curious about?” “Yeah?” “I dug around a bit,” he continued. “Asked a friend who works with collectors. There’s a man named Viktor Malinov. He used to mentor a handful of underground painters in Moscow.” “And why are you telling me this?” I titled my head, hands crossed.

Rain turned to look at the man next to her who still maintained a calm expression on his face. Most of the blood that spurted out of Pietro’s hand landed on his face and his suit yet he looked so calm…he had a gun in his hand. He killed the man. Rain wasn’t sure what compelled her to move her body, she got up… she looked at him in horror. He didn’t look like he just took a life, he looked like—a demon—no, Lucifer himself. She took unconscious steps backwards. She couldn’t stay here, she couldn’t stand the sight of blood, she couldn’t stand the sight of…him.

“Art is my way of conveying what words sometimes can't.” “What inspires you the most?” I asked, genuinely interested. “Everything,” he replied, leaning back as he closed the sketchbook. “But mostly the stories people carry with them. Everyone has a story to tell, even if they don’t realize it.” I nodded in agreement. Just like this town, filled with hidden secrets and stories waiting to be uncovered. He added, “I’m not sure what inspires me more, the beauty of the world or the darkness within it.” I found his perspective captivating.

People mill around, young painters in ripped jeans, older ones in linen jackets, collectors with quiet voices and roving eyes. A man stops beside me in front of a large canvas. He’s maybe sixty with graying hair pulled into a loose ponytail. “Beautiful chaos,” he says, nodding at the painting. I smile. “It’s alive.” He turns to me. “You’re Dana Travis.” “You know my work?” I ask, surprised. “I know the rumor that the woman who just handed a timber empire to her brother is secretly one of the most interesting painters in the country right now.” He extends a thin hand. “Malcolm Reyes.”

He had completed many others over the years, all of them kept hidden in his closet. Some of his finished pieces, he had given to crew members, clients, or friends. He always pretended he had bought them somewhere and decided to give them as gifts. He was too embarrassed to admit that he was the one who painted them. He was not ready to share that part of himself. He feared people would start asking where he learned it, how he got into it. Because the truth was… he learned it from his biological parents. Yes, he remembered them. He had been almost four years old when the riot broke out in their town and both of his parents were killed.

The last time the tattoo had scabbed over, I had missed him too much and couldn’t find an excuse to come, so I had forcibly picked at the scab before it had healed. This was my third touch-up. It was also my self-directed and self-performed act of “playing the victim.” The comments drifted by right on cue: “I’m dead. This isn’t clumsiness, it’s desire itching under the skin!” “Claire Rivers ruins her own skin just to see her man once. Yeah, only she would pull that off!” “Henry is washing his hands three times longer than usual! He’s calming himself down! He’s trying not to look like a creep!”

The Gilbert Group, with Bradley Gilbert at its helm, was a name that sent shivers down the spine of anyone in the city. He was known as the Reaper, a legend among both cops and criminals. "You want me dead?" I asked. "It's a tough job; that's why we came to you," Black Viper said before he then turned to leave. "You've got a month to get ready. Oh, and Bradley's got a lady friend, Rosemary Baker. She's his Achilles' heel."