Chiara Bautista Artwork Novels & Stories

“Inspect the tableware, Chika.” Confused by his focus on the porcelain, I stepped to the mahogany edge and picked up a heavy, custom-fired ceramic bowl. To my absolute disbelief, an elite graphic artist had printed a stylized, sharp-chinned cartoon image of my wolf form—complete with my distinct silver-tinted fur and arrogant scowl—directly onto the glaze of every plate and vessel. Thinking my vision was playing tricks due to the concussion, I picked up a platter, inspecting the border work three times.

“Forgive me, Alpha, but what is the purpose of this?” I hummed thoughtfully. “I believe Chiara and Doctor B might be the same person.” Benedetto reeled back in shock, his eyes widening. “Don’t joke, Alpha! How could that be possible? The Luna is just an ordinary wolf from an orphanage!” As I sifted through Chiara’s records, I noticed that apart from taking medical courses during her student years, there was no direct overlap with Doctor B. According to official records, Chiara was ordinary in every way—while Doctor B was dazzling.

I clicked on the first one and it was a document from the Blogger’s Office; “Our showroom in Italia- We have reserved it all these years for only the Icons…” “Nice intro” I nodded, skimming through it briefly. I clicked on the second, then the third, and the fourth- “Shanon Cartier is Varde!” I exhaled softly, greatly impressed by the work. “She’s going to the party after all…”

Papers and photographs scattered across the floor. And the moment I saw them… My blood turned ice cold. I slowly bent down. My hands tightened around the photographs as my eyes widened in horror. They were all pictures of Chiara. Stolen photographs. Secret photographs. Old photographs. There were pictures of her back in the Moonstone Pack when she was pregnant with Luca and Sofia. My chest twisted painfully at the sight of her smiling softly while holding her swollen stomach. Then another picture caught my attention. Chiara standing beside Raffaele Romano years ago.

If the Conti name—if my father’s money—gets me through this door, then the whole pursuit is tainted. I opened the message. It was a long, beautifully articulated note from Marco. Clara, the “Unseen Milan” series—specifically the portraits of the textile workers in the Bovisa district—is phenomenal. The composition is brutal, honest, and the light… it’s a truth-telling light. We want to feature this series on the main page next week and potentially host a print sale through the site. This is strong, important work. I actually gasped, leaning back against the sticky vinyl seat. Success. Real, earned success, entirely separate from any structure Amelia or Dad could provide.

She needed peace. "He has Dante's nose, don't you think?" Chiara asked, turning her head to look at me. Her dark eyes lingered on my face for too long amd a strange expression crossed her features before she quickly looked back at the baby. "It's so prominent. But he definitely has your chin, Isabella." "Chiara." I growled, entirely abandoning my attempt at patience. "The florist is waiting." "I know, I know.” She laughed lightly She turned away from the bassinet, but instead of walking toward the door, she walked toward the coffee table.

I had her. “You must allow me to see them sometime,” she said, her voice a little too eager. “Perhaps,” I said, my voice noncommittal. And then, I made my real move. “But there is one piece I have been searching for for years. A ghost. A masterpiece of Renaissance portraiture. A sorrowful Madonna by Botticelli. It was last seen in a private collection here in Chicago, years ago, but it was lost in a fire. A tragic, tragic loss to the art world.”

For some reason, Gloriana had expected someone so controlling to be a neat freak, but his desk was barely visible behind small towers of black, green, and red legal tomes and spiral-bound notebooks. A set of inlaid bookcases lined half of one wall, with books stacked vertically and horizontally in a slapdash manner, and what looked like an original Da Vinci dominated another. And that surprised her as well. The painting was called ‘La Scapigliata’ (Ita for ‘The Lady with Dishevelled Hair’). Da Vinci had such a soft, almost magical quality about his work, and that didn’t fit her image of Griffin at all. “It’s an investment,” Griffin replied as if he could read her mind. “So, who is he to you?