Page 157 of Ink Deep Devotion

I shake my head.“I live here now. I was born here, but my parents split, and my mom took me back to her hometown, a small town just outside of New York City. My father is Italian, but I have never had a deep relationship with him; he did send the best Christmas cards, but…”Oh god, stop talking!Nope, more comes out.“After my dad died, I wanted to come back to his home and learn more about his culture. So I live and work here now, but I went to school for art and, well…my Italian is terrible but…yeah, I’m trying…”Stop!I just told her my entire cover story in one huge breath.

I sound like a babbling fool. I close my eyes.

“Americans talk a lot,” Camilla replies, but a friendly smile greets me when I dare to look up at her again.“But Italians love gossip, one might argue we talk more.” She winks. “Please take a seat and set up. We will begin shortly.”

I sink my shaking legs down onto the stool, claiming the corner as my spot.There, you did it. Just relax.

The room is filled with clean shelves that hold all kinds of objects to draw. In the center, there is a small pedestal for our model to stand on.

There are art classes everywhere. This is Italy, after all, but finding an abstract art class in this town was impossible. I’m not brave enough to travel outside of the town, so I’m stuck taking a traditional drawing class that focuses on live models and perfecting the skill, technique, and anatomy.

Only six other students joined us: four are older than forty, and the others are teenagers. We begin with a gestural drawing. I don’t mind this because my lines can remain messy as I try to capture the lines of the form. It’s drawing details that petrify me—looking too closely, seeing the demons inside of people.

“What was your focus?” Camilla asks as she comes to look at my warmup drawings.

“Not portrait drawing.” I joke.

“Revealing your weakness already?” She crosses her arms.

“I suppose so. I…I prefer abstract art.”

“Why?” There’s a sour note in her voice.

I shrug.“It just allows me more control. More ways to express myself. I just connected with right away.”

“I take it you don’t like people.”

“I…” this feels like an interrogation.“I like people.” Some people. Actually, Camilla is right. I’d rather be alone with my art and music and, okay, yes, Dash, then surrounded by others.

“Then why are you scared to draw them?” Her red lips tug up.“Sorry for my blunt observation; my class is different from most. Art is about pushing boundaries. I don’t want my students just to be good artists. If you signed up for this class, you are already one. I want you to be extraordinary; I want you to make art that stops people in their tracks. I want souls captured on the canvas. That can’t be done through abstraction. There must be a reason you took this class and not an abstract one.”

“That is blunt.” I cough, then curl my fingers in so she can’t see how much they are shaking.“There was no abstract class close by,” I blurt out.

“So I’m your backup.” Instead of being insulted, her lips spread wider.“I think things happen for a reason, American. I think you picked this class because you need a challenge. You’ll get one.” She reaches out and rips the paper off my sketch pad.“Start over; you lost the form in your lines. You had it. I watched you outline her body perfectly; then you scribbled over it with useless marks.”

Her heels click as she walks to the next easel. The older woman next to me snorts a laugh.“When I first came,” she says, her accent is so thick I struggle to translate the English coming out.“She kicked me out of her class and told me not to come back until I had passion. She is like a mother. She wants what is best for her students, and that is tough love and raw honesty.”

My exhale quivers.

She reaches out and touches my shoulder.“Don’t give up. You’re young and have your whole career ahead of you.”

I grasp my charcoal and press it to the paper, determined not to give up or give in to my weakness.

Chapter 58

Dash

I’ve lost track of time. As a matter of fact, fuck time!

Days without Mila don’t exist. I’m in a state of limbo. Chasing her and running from my brothers. However, after tonight, they will find me. They have been watching Blaze, and it was only a matter of nonexistent time before I came here to interrogate him. I’m sure Cillian is on his way, but he won’t get here in time to save Blaze or me. Not since he’s been in New York.

I reckon it will be Leo or Anders who gets to me the fastest. Hopefully, the latter since he won’t stop me from spilling more blood.

“That was a fucking shit show!” Blaze shouts as he enters his brother’s stylish penthouse.“Where the fuck were you?” The door kicks open, and the scent of gunpowder lingers on his clothing. Blaze’s brother, whom I’ve had tied up for the last four hours, was supposed to meet Blaze at the docks where their exchange of a new shipment of weapons had gone south.

Blaze stops when he sees me. His eyes look to his brother, who is still breathing but not without injury.

“I’d apologize for ruining the carpet, but you can afford another,” I speak when Blaze’s eyes connect to the knife sticking out of his brother’s thigh. He won’t die from the wound. I made sure not to hit an artery, courtesy of my training at Initiation 101.

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