Page 68 of The Bonventi War
"I'll be back in the morning," he repeats, firmer this time. "Just keep working."
The dismissal stings. In his eyes, I'm still just a tool. A means to an end.
And maybe that's all I've ever been to him.
I clutch the canvas tighter and continue up the stairs without another word. I move through the gallery, my footsteps echoing in the emptiness. At the workstation near my office, I pull out a bottle of black acrylic paint.
For a moment, I just stare at the blank canvas. I think of Gio, of how my dad compared him to the men after us, after me.
But he isn't.
He's never asked me for anything but the truth. Never expected me to be anything but myself.
And what have I given him in return?
I don't know, but not the same. Hell, I sided with my father.
The one who would discard me to save his own skin.
The realization hits me so hard I think I almost feel the blow.
I've been loyal to the wrong person all along.
Without thinking, I squeeze paint onto my palm and press my hand against the canvas, smearing it in violent, chaotic strokes.
But when I stop and look back, I only see one word. Something I truly am.
Sorry.
I look down at my paint-stained hand. They're shaking again, but not from fear or anger. From clarity.
I've spent my life being who others needed me to be, doing what others needed me to do. For my father. For Johnny.
Never for myself.
Never for what I wanted.
And what do I want?
The answer comes with surprising ease—I want Gio.
I want his strength, his protection, his intensity. I want the way he looks at me like I'm the only woman in the world.
I've been so afraid of being controlled that I didn't see what he was offering. Not ownership—partnership. Protection without imprisonment, all wrapped up in the only way Gio knew how to present it.
My gaze falls on the camera in the corner of the gallery. The one Gio installed to keep me safe. Is he watching now? Does he still care enough to watch?
Without hesitating, I grab the canvas and run up to my apartment. I knock on his door, step back, and hold it up.
He doesn't answer.
I knock again, and still no answer.
I think for a moment, then spin around and enter my apartment. I take an easel and set the painting on it. I turn it and position it right at his camera so he can read what I truly am, expressed in my own way, the way I know how.
I wait a few minutes, expecting something to happen. I don't know what. A knock at my door? A phone call maybe? I reach into my pocket.
Shit, I left it in the basement.
