Bloody Painter Real Name Novels & Stories

Like we were just two guys, no mafia bullshit hanging over my head. “So,” I said, trying to keep my voice light, “how was class? Learning how to paint masterpieces or something?” He chuckled, a soft sound that eased the knot in my chest. “Art history, actually. Today was about Renaissance masters. Da Vinci, Michelangelo. All that tortured genius stuff.” “Tortured, huh?” I glanced at him, smirking. “Sounds familiar.” His cheeks flushed a little, and he looked away, biting his lip. “Yeah? You don’t strike me as the artistic type.”

someone said, coming up to me and sitting beside me, his legs crossed. “Which one?” He pointed to the rear end where someone stood, his back to me caressing the painting. A little girl looking into a dark tunnel and holding a dying lamp. “It's nice, do you know the artist?” I asked, curious to know. The young man chuckled, his laugh breaking. “The mafia heir to the house of Devon. Paul Devon, the mafia with a heart, but dead,” he explained, his gaze not leaving my face. “I've never heard of them,” I muttered a bit embarrassed, but it seemed he didn't care.