Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Sienna
"Thank you, Mother," Nico responds sarcastically... yet affectionately. His devotion to his mother is unmistakable. I could logically argue that even bad people can cherish their loved ones, but it feels more complex. My body yearns for Nico, the same impulse that compelled me to finally give his features to my faceless man.
That doesn't mean I have to surrender to such desires. I refused to let grief control me. I won't succumb to passion, either.
Nico gestures toward the living room. I proceed ahead, acutely conscious of his scrutiny. It's as though he's meticulously analyzing me, not judgmentally. Rather, he seems... ravenous. As if feasting visually upon me. My body responds involuntarily.
Nevertheless, I maintain self-control. I can tolerate this. He guides me into the living room. It's breathtaking. I feel like I’ve been transported into a museum.
The living room exudes subtle hints of lemon and old books.
Light filters delicately through the linen drapes, gentle as a whispered breath. The furniture sits low and expansive, upholstered in immaculate fabric that wouldn’t dare wrinkle. The pale rug underfoot appears handwoven, likely older than me. I hesitate to step further. The air feels... deliberately curated.
Nothing appears ostentatious or disorganized.
"Are you going in?" Nico inquires from behind.
"Yes, of course."
Why did I stumble verbally?
"Sorry– you wouldn’t happen to have a chair available? I need to set up my easel."
"I'll get you everything necessary," he assures, "and apologies aren't unnecessary."
He's right. I hadn't intended to apologize. But I don’t need his help. I set up my easel. Nico leaves momentarily, returning with a chair. "You carried that on the bus?" he questions as I arrange my pencils, gradient selection, and blending tools.
"It's hardly a big deal," I reply.
He positions the chair. "It absolutely is, Sienna."
"Your southern accent intensifies when pronouncing my name."
He grins charmingly. "Sienn-ah, like that?"
I laugh despite myself, disregarding my reservations, knowing it contradicts my better judgment. "Precisely. You sound like some classic film star."
"Perhaps I was in an old movie."
Another involuntary laugh escapes me as I wave dismissively. "You're hardly ancient."
"It's reassuring to confirm I’m not that old, Sienna. I appreciate that."
"I didn't mean to imply..."
Now he’s got me tripping over my own words. This dangerously resembles flirtation, precisely what I should avoid with this mafia man.
"Is my attire appropriate?" he inquires, maintaining that self-deprecating smile I noticed before. When he looks at me like that, it’s like we’re both in on a secret, just me and him.
"Yes, a suit is ideal, classically appropriate."
The suit appears exceptional on his frame. It's impeccably tailored, dark blue, accentuating his powerful physique. While sketching my mystery man, I never contemplated his physical form. That oversight now seems inconceivable. I feel an overwhelming desire to remove that jacket, to paint my body with his.
"Should I position myself here?"
"You're directing yourself."
He reclines in the armchair. "Perhaps I should be asking if crossing my legs is acceptable. Or would you rather I growl like a tiger?"
If I surrender to my laughter once more, I’m sewing my lips shut. "Growl like a tiger?"
"Isn't that what photographers tell their models to do?"
"I'm not a photographer, and you're certainly not?—"
"A model? You're crushing my dreams, Sienna." His vulnerability appears when sincerity replaces humor. "But after last night's events, are you truly alright?"
"I'm perfectly fine," I respond tersely, almost grateful for the reminder of mafia entanglements. "You'll need to remain motionless soon. I need to focus entirely on you."
The light cuts beautifully across his features, casting striking shadows and highlighting the silver flecks in his hair. My pulse quickens—not with the familiar adrenaline of confronting the Bratva, but with the exhilaration that accompanies a new idea.
Whatever complications exist between us, he’s got a great face for a portrait.
"I discovered online that portrait artists can accommodate conversations during sessions," he remarks.
"Some can, but I don't fall into that category."
He tilts his head, making direct eye contact. The connection feels disconcertingly natural. I've always wondered what it’d be like to find somebody I could effortlessly banter with like on TV—that instantaneous rapport I never imagined someone like me could achieve. Too awkward. Too intense. Too trapped in my own thoughts.
"Why do I sense you're being dishonest with me, Sienna?"
"Because if I revealed the truth, you'd want me gone," I whisper.
"Pardon?"
"Nothing."
"No." He leans forward. "What did you just say?"
"I said we need to get started, so please try to remain still."
I sketch his silhouette. In some ways, it would be simpler to preserve him like this—merely an outline of a man. I could envision him as my ideal match, though I've never gotten specifics when it comes to that. Yet even as I trace his contours, his presence permeates my consciousness—his protective stance at the restaurant, his effortless smiles.
"How’s this?" he asks, barely moving his lips.
I can't suppress my smile. "That's perfect."
"Should I smile or..."
"No. Just maintain your natural expression. Which appears predominantly grumpy."
I work from bottom to top. The portrait will begin at his waist, with his legs dissolving through a blending technique—something I'll incorporate later—extending upward to encompass his head. I'm determined to capture the texture of his suit, to somehow convey the power it exudes.
He emanates affluence. It transcends the luxurious surroundings. It's embodied in his tailored suit, his polished brown shoes, his very essence.
"When did you first begin drawing?" he asks, again with minimal lip movement.
"When I was a kid."
"With your father? Your mother?"
"My dad abandoned us," I reply stiffly, barely registering my voice. The sound of the 4B pencil shading his suit's texture suffices. Technically, this detailing could wait for the refinement stage, but I'm deliberately postponing work on his face... extending our time together.
It's almost as if I crave his company.
"I'm truly sorry to hear that."
"My mom consistently encouraged my art. She juggled two jobs yet somehow always found the money for new supplies. Pencils came first, because... Well..."
"Well?" he prompts, his tone suggesting genuine interest, even eagerness for me to continue. I simultaneously hate and adore his curiosity about me.
"They were more affordable," I explain. "Paint came with a higher price tag, so pencils became my medium. An entire universe of pencils. Of gradients. Of discovering light through precise pressure and angles. I sketched my mom hundreds of times. Even when?—"
I abruptly stop. I have to restrain myself. I nearly snap my pencil to release the mounting tension. I hadn't anticipated losing my composure, but the contrast between his authentic self and his mob persona is maddening.
Focus on the money. Think of Mom. Two conflicting impulses surge through me.
"When?" he presses.
"Are you a parrot?"
"Are you a parrot?" he counters with a smirk that somehow, even now, elicits a smile from me.
Abandoning his jacket, I shift my pencil to his face, outlining its profile and capturing that smirk, wondering whether he'll come out looking mocking, encouraging, or somewhere between.
"We don’t have to talk about anything that makes you uncomfortable," he offers.
"How magnanimous of you."
"Are you always this prickly?"
"Are you always this... you?" I retort.
"Unfortunately, some might say yes, I am," he admits.
"Just another prestigious hedge fund manager."
He leans forward slightly. The gesture lacking menace. Inexplicably, I feel safe in his presence. I only asked Gianna to meet us here solely to prevent opportunities for him to kiss me, touch me, make my body tingle and ache with his physical strength and imposing stature. Am I delusional to believe he would even want that?
"Is something on your mind?"
"What could I possibly want to say? I already said silence is better for the portrait, anyway.”
He leans back. His lips no longer form that smirk, yet that's how they materialize in my sketch as I transition to heavy gradients for his penetrating eyes and lighter strokes for his hair. We proceed in tense silence for ten excruciating minutes. I nearly want to scream simply to shatter it.
He watches me calculatingly, deciphering my thoughts.
"What happened to your mother?" he asks.
If the question weren't so painful, I might appreciate his breaking the silence.
"Excuse me?"
“You said you painted portraits of your mother... until—and then expressed anger toward my profession as a hedge fund manager."
"I don’t know what you're talking about.”
"What happened to her?"
I set aside my pencil. "This is a professional setting. And you’re being rude."
He smirks, seemingly appreciating my calling him out. He probably finds few others willing to challenge him. Perhaps Gianna. I can't imagine her tolerating any nonsense. But likely no one else. "Perhaps I am overstepping, but something feels distinctly amiss beneath the surface of this situation."
"So, you're determined to tear up the floorboards and scrutinize whatever lies beneath."
"I believe that's what you want," he says perceptively. "Since you arrived, you've appeared poised to confront me about something."
He's right. I've wanted to vent my rage for a long, long time. Four years. Since losing my mother.
"Do you seriously want to hear this?" I demand.
"Yes," he affirms.
I feel pathetic for even wanting to discuss this, as though his listening might somehow matter.
"We were sitting outside a café off Lower Greenville," I begin as I recall that moment. "She, my mom, my vibrant, witty mom, was in a linen blouse she reserved exclusively for cheery days. I had my sketchpad balanced on my knee.
"We had just split a rather pricey cinnamon roll, and I was trying to capture how her left eyebrow always arched higher than the right when feigning attention. Then came the shouting. Then the gunfire."
I watch for any sign of shock on his face, but his expression transforms into an unreadable mask.
"Three shots. Without warning. Without escalation. It wasn't movie violence. It was casual, like flicking a cigarette. A man in a gray blazer ducked behind the espresso cart. Someone collapsed. And my mother simply blinked at me, bewildered. Then she simply dropped her coffee and slumped in her seat. A stray bullet had penetrated her abdomen."
I remain dry-eyed, my face as impassive as Nico's. He's likely wondering whether I'm an undercover cop, an investigative journalist, or if I've hidden a gun among my art supplies.
"They said it was a turf thing. Two factions. One car got boxed in. Someone panicked. She was never a target. They never caught who did it. Too many names. Too many reasons to avoid questions. The cops classified it as 'gang-related'—Dallas's method of sanitizing anything messy that wears a suit."
At the mention of a suit , he flinches. "I deeply regret what happened to your mother."
"You regret it," I echo, my tone conveying just how little his sentiment means to me.
Unbidden, tears slide down my cheeks, my eyes burning, betraying my composure. He notices. It transforms his entire demeanor. He transitions from mobster to compassionate supporter.
He stands protectively, reminiscent of his posture in the restaurant when that stranger nearly knocked me over. It seems instinctive for him... because it's me. Would people consider me irrational if I confessed how a man's stance and movement make me feel cherished?
Swiftly, he crosses the room, gazes down at me, and then, mirroring the restaurant incident, hesitates as if questioning his approach. He recognizes the impossibility of our situation.
"Sienna," he whispers.
"I'm fine. It happened four years ago. But can you comprehend that? The mob operates with impunity, harming whomever they choose."
I wait for his response, some acknowledgment. He looks at me with apparent anguish. Perhaps he wishes to confide in me, but recognizes he can’t.
"There are certain matters that have to remain confidential," he states grimly. "But if you're curious about my employment, we can talk about how boring hedge funds are."
I wipe my cheek, resolving against further tears. "I didn't come here to discuss my mom." Or to listen to lies and deflection. "Would you please sit?"
"Sienna..."
Suddenly, his commanding hands are on my shoulders. When he applies pressure, I momentarily feel owned. A secret I'll never divulge... I want him to keep holding me like this. I feel claimed. Protected. Wrapped in his authority.
But I quickly pull away, raising my hands defensively. He steps forward. My palms press against his shirt. I sense the radiating warmth of his skin, his heart pounding beneath solid muscle. I nearly clench my fingers, dragging my nails across his chest.
I take another step back. He halts.
"Is 'sorry' the word you’re looking for?" I snap, hoping my conflicted emotions remain hidden. I yearn to touch him again, to receive further comfort. Even if he might be responsible for my suffering.
He forces out his response. "I don't want to see you upset.”
"Upset," I repeat, shaking my head incredulously.
"Devastated. Your life was shattered. I wish there was something I could do."
You could reveal the truth. I mentally paint the words in the space between us before they dissipate. If he insists on deception, then deception it shall be. This charade won't be for long, anyway.
"If you can sit down and let me finish, that will help."
He raises his hand. Hesitates. Then decisively takes mine. We remain connected for several bewildering moments before I pull my hand away. He's disrupting both my physical and emotional equilibrium. My very soul, if I want to frame it artistically... which, unsurprisingly, I do.
"Nico. Please sit so I can finish my work. Thank you."
But he remains immobile, continuing to gaze intently as though our very existence depends upon it. His familiarity exceeds propriety. Yet it feels... natural? Is that right? Interaction with him flows effortlessly than with most people. I feel authentically myself.
What am I even thinking?
"Nico." I put my hand against his chest again, urging him backward. "Please."
He captures my hand. He pulls me toward him.