Chapter 6 Sophia
Sophia
All I could see was darkness. I tried to peek through the cracks between Gabriel's fingers as a door clicked shut behind me, but his hands had anticipated my curiosity, covering my eyes just enough to keep me blind.
“Are you ready?” He asked warmly.
“Yes.”
He pulled his hands away, and I blinked against the light. As my vision adjusted, the room unfolded before me, one I hadn’t seen yet, filled with thousands of dollars’ worth of art supplies. Pristine brushes, canvases of every size. High-end oils laid out with careful, almost reverent precision.
“As you can see, I spared no expense for you.” Gabriel’s hand trailed down my back, settling lightly at my hip.
Excitement bubbled up inside me, but so did apprehension. The largest canvas in the room loomed over me, a silent challenge. Not just in its sheer size, but in what it represented. The unspoken pressure to create something perfect. Something worthy of the space. The money. His expectations.
I stared, wordless.
“Don’t you like it?” His voice was soft, yet commanding, as if he already knew the answer. Knew why I had no words. Leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, he watched me with quiet intensity, deep blue eyes locked onto mine.
“It’s… overwhelming, but great at the same time,” I admitted, running my fingers over the untouched brushes.
“You’ll rise to the occasion.” His confidence in me was absolute, as though failure wasn’t even a possibility in his mind.
I didn’t say anything. I only nodded, letting the pressure sit heavy in my chest.
“I’m going to speak with my father about some things,” he said. “Ill be back in a while.”
The door clicked shut behind him, and I was alone.
I exhaled, turning back to the blank canvas. Except I hadn’t said yes to anything. I hadn’t agreed to be a part of this scheme. I hadn’t even decided if I wanted to paint.
And yet, I found myself reaching for a brush. Maybe just to prove something to myself. Maybe because part of me missed it, missed the part of myself that used to paint for no other reason than to enjoy the simple act of creating.
I scanned the supplies again, high-end oils, specialty brushes, pigments in every imaginable shade. Brands I’d never dreamed of using, let alone owning. Everything here was the best money could buy, and I felt a twinge of unworthiness.
I paced in front of a medium sized canvas already mounted on an easel. I didn’t need to search for the image, it was already there. The gazebo. The white curtains lifted in memory by a breeze. The flicker of golden light through the trees. I could see the moment. I could feel it.
I dipped a brush into a pale ivory, softening it with hints of yellow mixed with white.
That would be the curtains. Then a muted gold.
The sunlight cutting through the trees. I mixed a cool gray with the faintest violet undertone and began sketching the pillars, barely visible yet anchoring the space.
Then red. A deep, earthy tone, not the center, but somewhere in the atmosphere, bleeding inward. And black, to weight the contrast. I didn’t try to replicate what I’d seen. I chased the way it felt. Only the quiet hiss of bristles against canvas remained in my mind.
Then I heard the door creak open. I looked over my shoulder with a smile meant for Gabriel, but Damien stood in the doorway, then he stepped inside.
"Is Gabriel in here?" He asked, glancing around.
I held my hands out at the obvious. “No. Just me.”
“Oh. Okay.” He said, frowning at the canvas. I waited, tension coiling in my spine.
“It’s… a start,” he said finally, his tone neutral.
I clenched my teeth. Exhaustion and pressure simmered beneath my skin.
A start?
“You don’t know anything about painting.” The words came out before I could stop them.
“You got me there,” He said absently.
I folded up a paper towel, wiped a drop of paint off the easel.
“Well, I was looking for my brother, but I’ll just tell you instead.”
I ignored him.
“We ran into a problem getting you into the auction. But I can see you’re busy so I’ll leave you to it.”
Guess I missed the family meeting. Because apparently, I was already going to the auction whether I agreed or not.
“What kind of problem?” I was curious, despite my frustration.
He let the silence stretch just long enough to pick at my irritation. “Nothing major. Just some… complications. But it doesn’t matter. Nikolai is working on a new angle. Should be resolved before the end of the day.”
“Nikolai?” I asked, glancing at him sideways.
“You haven’t met him yet?”
“I’ve met him. I don’t trust him.”
Damien laughed. “Of course you don’t. How can you trust someone you don’t know?” He closed his eyes, let out a soft laugh under his breath. “Gabriel doesn’t.”
“Why are you even telling me this if the problem is already being resolved?”
“I just thought you should be informed, is all.”
“How can Nikolai get in but no one else in your family or group or whatever you call it can?”
Damien exhaled dramatically, as if debating where to begin. “Nikolai isn’t part of the family. He’s just a guy.”
“So you trust ‘just a guy’?” I asked.
“Here I thought you were a soft, agreeable woman.” His smirk returned. “No, he’s not just a guy. But I’m not standing here for an hour telling you decades of stories to change your perception of him.”
“Whatever.” I turned my back to him, staring out the window. Then, after a dozen heartbeats, glanced over my shoulder.
He was gone.
I walked over and closed the door, pressing my palm against the wood for a moment before looking back at my painting.
It wasn’t finished, not even close, but the beginnings of something I could be proud of stared back at me.
I cleaned my tools, then left the room, closing the heavy door behind me.
The scent of polished wood and something floral lingered in the air. I didn’t know how long I’d been painting—but the sky outside had shifted, softening into evening. My footsteps echoed across the floor as I tried to find my way back the way Gabriel had led me down.
Then I heard voices.
Low. Steady. Deliberate.
I followed the sound, curiosity pulling me closer. Rounding a corner, I spotted them: Gabriel and his father.
The Don.
They sat in a distant circular room, what looked like the wealthy version of a man cave, their silhouettes illuminated by the golden glow of a chandelier. A chessboard lay between them, untouched.
I stayed hidden, listening.
Their words were too quiet to make out, but the cadence was… familiar. One spoke. The other paused. A friendly rhythm.
Then, Gabriel smiled.
Faint. Subtle. But real.
He said something, and his father chuckled.
I pulled back.
Gabriel had only spoken of his father with contempt. Like he was nothing but a deluded old man, consumed by power.
But no relationship is defined by a single emotion. No person is just one thing.
And yet, in that moment, I saw a trace of what was clearly once a much stronger connection, a flicker of something warm resurfacing from the years of resentment. Then I heard Gabriel say my name, in a tone that marked the end of their conversation.
I ran quietly back to the art room, nearly tripping over a long rug in the hallway.
I closed the door behind me, hurrying back in front of the painting. Moments later, the door opened again.
Gabriel stepped inside.
I set my brush down and looked at him, letting my hand linger on it, offering him a small smile.
He smiled back and walked up beside me, his gaze fixed on the painting before meeting my eyes again.
“You're amazing,” he said simply, and I could see the pride in his eyes.
And somehow, that single statement meant everything. The way he looked at me, he really believed in me. It made it easier to believe in myself.
"I’ve decided I will go to the auction."
“Good, good, but theres one more thing I have to ask of you.”
“Anything?”
“My Father wants to see you.”
“Anything but that.” I said, teasingly fluttering my eyelashes at him.
“You’ll be alright.”
“Don, Auditore, you wanted to see me?”
He glanced at me over thick reading glasses, and set down a notebook he was writing illegibly in.
“I see you took your time.”
He gestured to the seat across from him, and I sat in the chair Gabriel had just been in.
“Have you ever played chess?” He asked, carefully folding up his glasses, setting them next to the board.
I couldn't help but show the confusion on my face at his question. I had expected him to just start berating me about how I shouldn’t be here.
“Chess is not just a game. It is symbolic of life and power. Have you ever played?” He asked again.
“Yes, but not seriously, I don’t remember the rules. Or what all the pieces do.”
He chuckled but there was no humor in it, loose skin under his chin shifting. “Imagine that.”
I narrowed my eyes at him before I could stop myself.
“Calm down girl.” He said dismissively, directing my attention to the board in front of us. “I’ll teach you.”
The pieces looked to have been carved perfectly from ivory, the chessboard itself a work of art, inlaid with gold around the edges. He grunted, leaning forward in his chair. His jaw trembling slightly, like he had to work up to speaking.
“Do you know what the game of chess is truly about?” He asked, a critical glare on his face.
I blinked, trying to figure out if he was looking for a different answer than what he just told me a moment ago.
“It’s… its about life and power.”
He nodded with a thoughtful frown, “Yes.”
“Is that why you want to teach me how to play?”
He ignored my question.
“Let’s begin with the basics,” the Don said, leaning even more forward.
His unsteady finger reached out, pointing at each of the chess pieces in turn.
“This here is the pawn. It moves only one step forward, but it can take an opponent diagonally. It is your foot soldier, your first line of defense.”
I nodded, my gaze focused on the small piece that he was indicating.
“Next is the knight, which moves in an L-shape. It's unpredictable and can jump over other pieces." He continued, moving his finger to a piece shaped like a horse, smirking like the piece had taken him by surprise. "A tricky one, that."
His gaze moved from me to the board as he began explaining the rest of the pieces - the bishop that moved diagonally across any number of unoccupied squares, the rook or castle that could move horizontally or vertically across any number of squares, the queen, who could move in any direction she pleased, and finally, the king.
"The king," he said, his voice dipping low, "is both your greatest strength and your greatest vulnerability. Protect him at all costs because once he's cornered and can no longer escape capture - hes dead, and the game is lost. If you aren’t willing to sacrifice, you are as good as dead along with the pieces you didn’t want to lose.
I nodded along.
"Chess is not only a game of strategy. It is a game of sacrifice," he continued with a sigh.
"Every piece on this board can be used as bait.
..as a pawn in a much larger game. You must anticipate your enemies moves, they will be anticipating yours, so you must also deceive them, when you are in a weak spot, appear to be strong, as if you planned it and have something up your sleeve, when you are strong, appear to be weak, then strike. "
His eyes met mine, dull blue, and for a moment, I felt like I was drowning in the depth of his gaze.
"And sometimes," he said quietly, “Sometimes you have to make a move you don't want to make.”
For an uncomfortably long moment we just stared at each other.
"Take the queen for example," he said, picking up the intricately carved piece and twirling it between his finger and thumb. "She is the most powerful piece on the board, able to move any number of squares along a rank, file, or diagonal. But she can be sacrificed if it means protecting your king."
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly feeling dry.
"But remember," he said intensely. "In chess, as well as in life, power is not always about brute force. It’s about strategy, wisdom...knowing when to strike and when not to."
His voice held an edge of warning now as his gaze once again locked onto mine.
“Ill be looking for your weaknesses, rooting them out, planning to use them against you.”
He lifted a pawn, moved it forward. “Your move.”
I took the knight in my hand, and moved it in front of my row of pawns as he clamored to his feet, gripping his cane hard.
“Thats it? Just one turn?”
“Yes,” he said hobbling off.
“T-thanks for the lesson.” I said. He only grunted, waving his free hand dismissively without looking back.
And I was alone with the chessboard.
That went well…