Page 3 of Captured By the Bratva

Because there’s no way in hell a perfect woman is waiting out there for someone likeme.

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BECCA

Another group passed by me, seeking out the trio of large canvases on the far wall. The gallery was packed, and that was good news. This opening-night showing was a success, but I couldn’t claim the majority of it.

I sighed, smiling at the guests and wishing they’d meander toward the back. My Impressionist-style paintings hung back there, but only a few of them stood out within this multi-artist display.

Morgan was the focal point of the show, and while I was happy for my friend, I couldn’t tamp down this stubborn sadness that lurked within my heart.

If I could have an inkling of her success, a small smidgen of all this fanfare and fame…

“Oh, excuse me,” a woman said, interrupting my morose mood as she tried to squeeze through the crowd. Then she stopped, doing a double-take on me. “Wait. Aren’t you…?”

I beamed, elated that she’d recognize me. All six of us participating artists had tiny thumbnail photos on the back of the pamphlet. Of course, Morgan took up a full half-page, her image in color and a paragraph of a biography rather than a one-liner about who she was. But this woman. She recognizedme!

“Oh, wait. No.” She flipped her paper over and smiled. “Sorry. I was looking for the painter of that landscape over there.”

I kept my polite smile plastered on my face as she pointed at Morgan’s face on the glossy pamphlet this woman picked up at the entrance. “Oh. Um, no, that’s not me. Morgan is up there.” Aiming my finger at the excited crowd that surrounded Morgan toward the front of the gallery, I fought the rising burn of envy.

Jealousy wasn’t becoming. I knew that. I didn’t usually sink to that lowness. And I tried my damnedest to squash it all. I wasn’tjealous. I couldn’t call myself a real artist if I envied another painter’s style. My style was my own, and I’d never change it.

Still, I struggled with the challenge of this envy of my friend’s success.

Stop. You’ll have your moment someday.I turned away, gripping the clay pendant on my necklace for comfort. My grandmother crafted this smooth shape, and every time I rubbed it between my thumb and finger, I felt connected to her. That my grandma’s artistic inspiration couldn’t fail me forever. That nothing lasted forever, the good or the bad, and I’d been dealt a fair share ofbadnessin my twenty-five years on this earth.

I walked back toward my pieces, eyeing the selection of small sculptures arranged under bright lights. Paintings were easier to get credit for, but the gallery owner had rudely insisted on “quantity over quality,” making a case for showing several of my sculptures since they didn’t take up too much space in the rooms. A variety of art media was preferred, and I spent more concentration on my sculptures than my paintings.

Hey, I’ll take it.Even though none of my artwork was getting much attention here, itwashere, and that was something to be proud of.

If my life were more like Morgan’s, I bet I’d be able to go further with my art. As a single mother of a ten-month-old, working a crappy job for a courier company, and without any family or support, I was limited in how much time and effort I could dedicate to my passion. Morgan was single, childless, and from a wealthy family with connections. It was no wonder she’d gotten far.

The only connection I had was my scummy, lying father.

And Dom.

I winced as I walked around, trying to look relaxed and not tense. Dominic Rossini had once appeared to be a connection who could have really led me to fame in the art world. He’d doted on me, dating me and making me feel special for so long, only to reveal his true intentions. That distinguished Italian strung me along only as a way to get closer to my father. For months, Dom conned me, making me think he loved me and my artwork with his vague plans to sponsor me in Italy and get me into European galleries. All that time, I thought I’d hit the jackpot in finding an older gentleman who cared about my artwork.

Instead, I learned he led a double life as a crime lord who’d simply pursued me as a way to maintain some kind of a business arrangement with my father.

It was all a lie.

Just thinking about Dom soured my stomach, but it wasn’t as awful as the headache that grew as I thought about my finances. I only had so much to pay Hannah for babysitting Emily tonight, and I felt so selfish to pay for childcare that didn’t amount to my working and picking up extra hours.

I hope she’s not being finicky.At the thought of my sweet girl, I smiled and wondered if Hannah was having any luck with her.Teething time sucks.It was brutal, and I wondered when that first tooth would cut through already and end Emily’s consistent fussiness.

I pulled my phone out of my purse, smiling and glancing around to see if anyone would notice. Being glued to a screen was a huge mistake to make here. I had to beon, smiling and chatting, promoting the showing and my artwork, socializing and mingling.

But simply seeing the screensaver of my baby calmed me. Emily was the brightest ray of sunshine in my life, and I vowed daily to do my best for her.

The text thread with Hannah showed nothing new, but then again, the college-aged sitter seldom complained. She was too sweet and competent to ever struggle with Emily.

Before I could stash my phone back in my purse and resume this smiling, fake-it-’til-you-make-it peppiness, the device buzzed with an incoming call.

Shit.Taking a call would be a bigger transgression. Once I saw that it was my dad, though, I sighed and knew he’d continue to call until I answered. I didn’t want to deal with his pushiness, so I stepped aside to settle whatever he wanted.

I missed the call in the time it took me to find a spot near the drinks in the back of the gallery, but sure enough, he called again.

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