Broken Pieces (Windy City Billionaires #1)

1. Chapter Aria

P acing back and forth, I swear I can almost hear the big white blank canvas mocking me as I wonder what in the hell is going on with this rut I’ve been in for—I glance at the calendar in the corner of my room to make sure I have the timing right—four weeks!?

Grabbing my sweaty hair, I reach for the largest paint brush, securing my hair in a messy bun. Of course, leave it up to me to use anything but a conventional hair tie. Once, I used straws because I had nothing else around—true story. And it didn’t hold my hair very well.

Looking around, I admire every detail of my paint studio. I live in a two bedroom loft in downtown Chicago, which isn't cheap, but I got a lucky deal. Definitely meant to be. This is the smaller bedroom of the two with a floor to ceiling window that overlooks the busy streets and buildings. The rest of the room is sort of a mess. There are canvases all around of paintings I’ve done over the years. My favorite one is front and center of the room, and it’s the one I look at when I’m feeling hopeless and just so, so lost. This one is the shadow of a woman in mute colors. Mostly black, with a few strokes of gray and white. Her body is not all there. It’s just part of her chest, slightly to the left with bright red petals scattered all over the canvas. It’s funny how this painting reflects exactly how I’ve felt my whole life.

Scattered. Broken. Lost.

Which is why it’s called “Scattered.” What can I say? It’s fitting.

Every stroke in these canvases tells a story. That’s the thing about art, you know? If people were to pay closer attention, they would all tell you something. From tragic and sad to epic and passionate stories. A painted canvas can tell you everything and nothing all at once, depending on how you look at it. I’ve never been good at expressing my feelings, but painting them? Well, that’s a whole other story.

Standing in front of the stupid canvas that’s currently on my wooden easel in the center of the room, I grab my oval dark wood painting palette, stained by countless painting sessions, and spread some of my oil paints. Mostly the basics—black, white, gray. I spread the smallest amount of all the mute colors on the palette, then grab a medium-sized paint brush and dip it in the white, then a little in the gray since it’s too dark for my liking. I don’t use bright colors often, unless it’s really necessary to convey an emotion or tell a certain story.

There’s no reason to. I’m numb, so my paintings simply show the same.

I stroke the brush against the canvas swiftly. I have no idea what I’m going to paint, but I’m determined to figure it out as I go. I keep doing random strokes here and there, mixing other colors as I continue. There’s no life to this painting, and I don’t think there will be. This is how my life has been feeling lately.

Muted. Dark.

In my 25 years of life, I’ve never been in a rut. It’s kind of weird considering I’m always surrounded by art. It shouldn’t be that big of a deal. It’s not like I’m a full-time artist. My mother made sure of that.

Ever since I was little, I had very little interest in extracurriculars. It was one of the things I most hated about myself. I tried many hobbies from sports to dancing, and wasted countless hours during my childhood trying to find something—anything— that would ignite a spark in me until I found the one.

Art.

At the age of twelve, I fell in love with art .

At the age of twelve, my mother also broke my heart for the first time.

The memory is still fresh like it was yesterday. Funny how the day I fell in love with art relates to one of my most bitter memories. My mother never approved of my paintings, or my love for art in general. The first time I painted something I was actually proud of, it was a meadow with white, blue, and purple flowers. These were my mother’s favorite colors, and I wanted to paint her something to make her feel better since my parents fought a lot. She was always under so much stress and always took it out on me. I knew she didn’t mean to—or at least that’s what I like to think to make myself feel better.

After I gifted her the small painted canvas and told her I wanted to quit cheerleading to pursue art, our relationship took a turn for the worse.

You will stay in cheerleading and you will like it, Then, you will go to school and choose a serious profession. Painting is a stupid hobby, and you’re not even that good.

Tears fill my eyes at the reminder of the moment that altered my life and self-esteem forever. That’s the same moment she took the painted canvas from my hands and threw it in the trash.

I kept up with painting and drawing when I could, despite my mom making it rough, and stayed on the varsity cheerleading team like she demanded. It was always the plan, after all. My parents weren’t able to afford college, so I joined a sport, became good at it, and got a full athletic scholarship. And I won’t lie—I was good . One of the top flyers of the varsity team. Talented enough that it landed me a full ride at the University of Kentucky, where I studied business administration with a minor in history. I worked my ass off in high school, focused on all my AP classes and got enough credits toward my degree that I graduated from college at 20 years old. I took so many credits and worked myself to the bone because I didn’t want to be there. I just wanted to escape . I could have easily gotten a full ride at NYU if my mother would have given me the opportunity. But that’s a choice she took away from me without a second thought.

Even though I didn’t pursue a career as an artist, I did choose the next best thing—becoming a senior curator for one of the top museums in Chicago. I’m around art all the time, and I get to discover new talent and learn the history behind such masterpieces. The canvas is my stage, the colors my actors, and the art lovers my audience. Needless to say, I’m an art geek. Once you get me talking, I will never stop.

Art has been the only constant in my life, so the rut definitely isn’t helping me right now. Deep down, I know why I’m feeling like this. Art has always been an escape for me, but I feel so trapped in my life right now, it’s affecting everything. Including the thing I’m most passionate about .

Trapped in a career that isn’t really my passion.

Trapped in a life I want to escape.

Trapped in the what-if’s?

Just… fucking trapped.

Staring at the half-painted canvas in front of me, I shake my head and grab it, and throw it across the room. As I’m pacing back and forth brewing in my built up frustration, my phone pings with a text.

Sophia: Girl, where the hell are you?

Shit. I totally forgot.

Me: Lost track of time, omw!

I stroll out of the creativity room toward the living room, searching for my purse. After finally locating it, I take a quick glance in the mirror. I’m rocking my usual stained overalls with a long-sleeve sweater, and I look like a hot ass mess, but I don’t have time to change, much less shower. So this will have to do.

On Sundays, me and my best friend have coffee and pastries at our favorite coffee shop. I love this tiny little place that’s nestled amidst tall buildings, creating a refuge for lost souls and dreamers. Walking in, I’m hit with the familiar smell of roasted coffee beans, buttery croissants, and caramelized pastries.

Sophia waves from our favorite spot—a corner table by the window with just the right amount of sunlight. Her brown hair shimmers in the sun's rays and the mischievous glint in her eyes signals she has news to share.

“You have that 'I've-got-gossip' glow,” I remark, settling into my chair.

“Can’t a girl just be happy to see you?”

I glance at her knowingly, raising my eyebrows.

She takes one look at my outfit, her brows furrowing in concern. “Any luck getting out of that rut?”

I slump my shoulders, frustration lacing my voice. “No.”

She grabs my hands and squeezes in reassurance. “I’m sure it’ll blow over.”

I roll my eyes. “So you’ve said the last four weeks.” I wave my hand in the air dismissively. “I don’t want to think about it. Let’s talk about something else.”

Sophia and I couldn’t be more opposite, really. While she’s loud and loves to party, I’m more mellow and prefer to go to a coffee shop, or to a good museum. I guess that’s why our friendship works. She’s the yin to my yang and all that. The one thing we have in common is that we’re both artists at heart. While her background is in journalism, she understands my world perfectly. But instead of wielding a brush to convey stories through paintings, she uses a pen and paper to tell them. But much like me, she’s forced to work on something she’s not passionate about.

Though, how many people can say they are passionate about what they do for a living? I like my job, but that’s only because I get to be close to what I would truly—in an ideal world—love to do for a living.

That’s as close as I allow myself to get. It’s not that I’m a bad painter—I refuse to call myself an artist— it’s just… rejection is scary. That’s all. The thought of sharing my work outside of my creativity room makes my body shiver. What if what my mother said was true? I don’t think I’m willing to take the risk. Not yet anyway. Even though I’ve never felt so trapped in my life, I don’t think I could take the rejection and the mockery.

As we share our usual rich tiramisu, Sophia says, “Did you hear about that art heist that happened in Rome?” She works for one of the top media websites in the country, which means she is aware of what’s going on constantly.

I nod, recalling the headlines about the stolen painting that was set to be auctioned later this month. It was expected to be sold just shy of two million dollars.

In-sane.

“My editor wants me to cover the story.”

I gape at her. “Wow… that’s amazing. I mean, are you excited?”

She shrugs. “You know I’m just working there for the meantime. And I’m sort of stuck with it, and it involves a lot of investigating since he wants the inside scoop and all.”

“Pft. He should be the one writing it, then.”

She glares at me. “You know how he is… wants to take all the credit and do none of the work.”

I thin my lips. “Well, if you need anything, let me know. You know I have some connections. Alex does too.”

She recoils at the name of Alex. “Please don’t mention that name. I don’t want to throw up. The tiramisu was particularly good today, and I’d hate to waste it.”

I snicker at her comment, rolling my eyes. We both decided to attend the same college and that’s where we met him. Alex and I were pursuing the same degree, while Sophia was pursuing English Literature. He quickly became friends with us, then the friendship between them went belly up after a drunken college night. I’ve been stuck in the middle ever since.

Alex was from Chicago, and decided to attend University of Kentucky to get away from the busy city, while Sophia and I were born and raised in Greenville, Kentucky. We’ve been inseparable since kindergarten. Just two simple small town girls who wanted to become something extraordinary .

I was the first to graduate, and as soon as I got that diploma, I packed all my things and moved to Chicago. At the beginning, I was just looking to survive. I could’ve done many things with a business degree, but none of them were related to art and I hated that.

Looking back, I was definitely being stubborn, but that’s just something that I needed to go through to get to where I am today. So I just became a bartender for a while. It was easy money and it put food on the table. That’s all that mattered to me at that point—survival. I had no hope.

The one hope I had died the day my mother took me away from it.

Two years later, Sophia and Alex graduated from college. Sophia moved to Chicago to pursue her writing career, and we became roommates for a while. Just two 22 year old girls in the windy city trying to make a living. She was an assistant at Vogue Elite at the time. I was still a bartender. Alex, on the other hand, moved to New York to open his own gallery. Sadly, that didn’t work out well for him. The details are still unknown to this day because he refuses to talk about it. He moved back to Chicago and became a curator for one of the top galleries in the city thanks to the connections he got during his time in New York. He knew how passionate I was about art, so he taught me the ropes of being a curator. I worked endless hours to make the right connections and worked my ass off to get inside the industry. It’s a small one, after all, so connections are extremely important.

Art is single-heartedly my whole personality, so it was easy to learn the ropes of that career. I landed a job as an assistant curator for The Institute and quickly climbed my way to the top. Now, I’m one of the two senior curators for The Institute, discovering new artists and managing all the art that comes in and out of the gallery.

I shrug. “Well, I’m still here if you need me, always.”

She nods with a knowing smile, then grabs her cup and takes a sip of her latte. “Now, tell me about the job offer? Are you taking it?”

I tense at the thought of it. “It wasn’t an actual job offer. He said he wanted to have a meeting with me,” I correct her.

She flips her hair back, rolling her eyes. “About the possibility of you working for him. Seriously, Ari, you need to give yourself more credit.”

I shrug off her comment. If there’s one thing about Sophia, the woman is brutally honest. I know I should start giving myself more credit. It doesn’t mean I can, though. Every time I have a shimmer of light, I can hear my mother in the back of my head.

Not talented enough.

Not good enough.

Simply not enough.

“I don’t think it’s a great idea to work for him.”

“And why not?” she challenges. “The money is good. He’s a huge deal in the art industry. What’s not to love? ”

He is what scares me the most.

With being known in the industry ever since I became a senior curator, offers pour in constantly, but I’ve never entertained any of them. That was until I received an email from the assistant of Damian Romano, one of the top businessmen in Chicago. Per Sophia, he’s one of the top bachelors in the city as well. I have no idea why this is relevant, but she insists that it is.

From what his assistant told me, he’s looking to upscale his gallery to a whole new level and they believe I’m the person for the job. The meeting’s tomorrow, and I’m still trying to keep my options open. With how trapped I’ve been feeling, I think a change of scenery may be what I’m looking for.

Or so I keep telling myself.

Everyone knows who Damian Romano is in the art industry—a self-made billionaire who worked his way to the top. Per Sophia, he owns multiple businesses, but his main thing is art. He’s a known art enthusiast who has the talent to pick up-and-coming artists, showcase them in his gallery, and help them become the next best thing.

While the change of scenery would be a welcome relief, the man is known for being difficult to work with. There are nothing but horror stories floating around about how egocentric and demanding he is. The art world is a small one, and with Damian Romano being one of the best in the business—known for his cutthroat strategies and seizing his opportunities to the max—people have things to say about him.

I give her a pointed look. “ You know why . I’m not sure I even want it though. I had dinner with Alex yesterday and he insisted it wasn’t a good idea.”

Sophia rolls her eyes. “Well, Alex can kiss my ass.”

“Funny, I thought he already did,” I say, grinning.

Her shoulders shake with a laugh. “Oh my god, you’re impossible. But in all seriousness, I think it’s going to be fine. Don’t believe everything people say on social media.”

I hum, still unconvinced. “We’ll see.”