Page 55 of Frayed Bonds

“Yeah, what I wouldn't give for another way to make even more money,” I say, and snap my fingers ironically.

I open the last of my emails and see one from an unusual address, and as I’m about to send it to junk, the word 'commission' catches my eye. I stare at the mail requesting a piece inspired by Jackson Pollock and then down at my fingertips. A few moments pass and I wonder what the chances are that it actually worked.

“It's going to be an offer of at least ten thousand euros,” I say, snapping my fingers again.

My fingers hover over the trackpad as I hesitate to scroll down, but when I do, the only sound you can hear is a gasp leaving my lips.

“A million euros are going to fall out of the sky…” I snap my finger and wait. “Damn, it was worth a shot.”

My eyes scan the email again, looking for any red flags, but the buyer seems to know what they're talking about. They know exactly what they want, and they are ready to pay a large amount of money to get it.

Jackson Pollock’s work is not difficult to draw inspiration from, they are essentially smears and splatters on a canvas. This is almost too easy.

I type an email in response, asking a few further questions and requesting a deposit in order to begin. Based on their response, this could be exactly what I need to start my art career again. That little push I need.

Chapter twenty

Valerie

My feet drum against the sidewalk. I haven't had the chance to go on a run since I got home, but with everything going on, this is probably the only way I’ll be able to clear my head.

My head spins around to check over my shoulder. There's barely anyone else awake considering the early hour but ever since that second note, I find myself constantly looking over my shoulder.

Somewhere between the utter despair of receiving the mail from the insurance company, and the absolute joy of receiving my first commission, I came to the realisation that ever since I moved home, my life has gone to utter shit, but somehow managed to be the best at the same time.

My immediate solution to the insurance situation is to take out a loan, but tossing up the amount of interest I’d be paying back to the bank versus what I’m already paying back to the insurance, it seems like a lose-lose situation.

In an ideal world, I'd love to believe if I keep getting commissions for amounts like this I’ll be fine, but the reality is that I don't turn pieces around fast enough for it to be sustainable.

I suppose I could pretend to date Ambrose again for a few thousand euros, but with the way that situation is currently hanging in the air, I'd rather completely avoid him than deal with it again.

Antonio's warning is like an annoying mosquito in the back of my mind. Not once while we were growing up when I had the crush, did he ever speak ill of Ambrose. If anything, he’s always been Ambrose’s biggest fan. The fact that he would take the time to call just to warn me about that is very odd.

I need to scrape all this nonsense of the Vitales from my mind and focus, they're simply a distraction, especially the eldest. Maybe he’s right, we’re just distractions to one another, and we should try to steer clear of each other.

I continue my run, the streets of Tevici slowly coming to life as the morning creeps in further and further. And I’m relieved to see more people up and about, calming my nerves a bit.

As I round the final corner before my street, I make up my mind.

No more Ambrose, no more Vitale distractions. Full focus on making money to keep the insurance company happy, and focus on my commissions and getting them out for the world to see.

I need to get my priorities straight, I remind myself. I came back here to take care of my father, not rub elbows with Tevici's elite.

And to run away from Mattheo.

That thought will always still be back there. I thought selling the ring would solve some of the nagging stress of waiting for him to sign the papers, but it hasn't, and he still hasn't signed them either.

Pushing all the Mattheo thoughts to the back of my head where they belong, I jog up the front of my house and take one last inhale before I enter.

The smell of coffee lets me know my father is wide awake and ready to take on the day. As I walk into the kitchen, I find him sitting at the table sipping what I assume to be an espresso and reading the newspaper.

He always sat like this, my entire childhood, every single morning. The only difference is my mamá would always be in the kitchen sitting next to him.

I realise how quiet the house is without her around, and I wonder how lonely he must've been for those few years when I went back to Paris.

“Fiore Mio, you're back, how was your run?” he asks, beaming up at me.

I left a small note in the kitchen in case he did wake up before I got back. “It was good, Papá, I think it was exactly what I needed to clear my head.” I smile, and head to the fridge to grab some water.

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