Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Sienna
My WiFi's gone belly up, forcing me to use the West Branch Library's antique computers. The machine sounds perilously close to expelling a cloud of black smoke. Ostensibly, I'm searching for employment opportunities.
Office work, perhaps, something steady. But somewhere between browsing job boards and nursing half a cup of lukewarm coffee, I find myself researching Nico Moretti. I know I need to be strong, to stick to my plan: one assignment, one payment—Gianna transferred the money mere minutes after receiving the digital image—followed by a new chapter to my life.
Yet I need to know. Is he truly a bad man? Or am I deluding myself by believing the internet can tell me the truth?
The articles present a polished image. Hedge fund triumphs, numerous charitable foundations prominently displaying his name. He finances cancer treatment initiatives, builds playgrounds in neighborhoods I avoid after nightfall.
One photograph shows him cutting a ribbon in Bishop Arts. Sunglasses, tieless, one hand casually pocketed as though he's not posing but simply existing in the right lighting. His attractiveness frustrates me. Even in still images, he appears attentive to something just beyond the frame. Perpetually strategizing, perhaps.
Another image captures him at a rooftop fundraiser, cufflinks gleaming, head turned toward a man I don’t recognize. Though not smiling, his mouth softens at the corners, suggesting the possibility. I wonder if he ever looks like that when no one’s watching.
I tell myself I don’t care. That our near kiss meant nothing. That I merely appreciate his observational style: composed, deliberate.
I close the browser before succumbing to rereading.
His online persona reveals nothing about his real life. He essentially confirmed his mob ties. He acknowledged certain topics remain off-limits. One needn't be exceptionally perceptive to deduce the implications.
My cell phone rings. I answer quickly when the librarian glares reproachfully.
"Hello?" I whisper.
"Sienna, my dear. Have I interrupted something important?"
"Give me two seconds."
I log out of the computer and step into the spring sunlight, not quite hot enough to render me instantly sticky, but sufficient enough to get a person sweating even in the shade. Across the street, a grocery cart lies overturned beneath a mesquite tree. A car creeps down the street, bass reverberating through the air, moving suspiciously slow. Probably a drug dealer.
"Hello?" I say, leaning against the railing. In the distance, a train rumbles past. It prompts thoughts of new beginnings. Cheesy? Undoubtedly. But it does.
"Sienna... your work, it's simply wonderful."
"Thank you," I respond.
"No, you don't understand. It's sublime. It's transcendental. You possess extraordinary talent. When did you begin drawing?"
My pulse quickens. If this lacked any mob connection, I'd be ecstatic right now. I've received compliments before, but nothing of this magnitude. And never with eight thousand dollars—she included extra as a tip—deposited in my account.
"When I was a little kid. Pencil sketches initially. They’re cheaper. But Mom would save and buy paint for me."
"Oh—how lovely. And she, your mother..."
"She's gone."
"I'm so sorry, Sienna. Truly."
I swallow a knot of grief. I've kept it buried deep for years, but the conversation with her son has shaken it all up.
"She would be proud of you, I'm certain," Gianna continues. "Your work has rekindled my passion for art. I want—need—to commission you for a project. Portraits, pencil and paintings: of people, of objects, of moments. Can you do that?"
"I..." My dreams are materializing before my eyes. I've imagined conversations precisely like this in my wildest fantasies. I've rehearsed my response should a wealthy benefactor ever present such a life-altering opportunity.
"I..."
I'm faltering, knowing what the right choice is. My original plan. One job. But this represents the most tantalizing offer I've ever received.
"Do you need some time to consider it, Sienna?"
"No," I interject quickly, before my dreams can talk for me.
I cannot overstate how desperately I've yearned for this. I'd discuss with Mom not merely surviving as an artist, but thriving—establishing my own gallery, perhaps even teaching at seminars. She always encouraged me. Yet we both recognized these as distant fantasies, not practical foundations for my future.
Now, here it is.
"I don't need to think about it. The answer is no."
"Pardon me?"
Naturally, she didn't hear me. I whispered the words. I close my eyes.
"What sort of mood are you envisioning?"
"I want a snapshot of my life, my friends, my hobbies, my outfits, my family... my son."
She pronounces 'son' as if testing me. Did Nico mention something to her? I don’t like the thought of them talking about me behind my back. Yet, paradoxically, I'm somewhat flattered by the notion of occupying Nico's thoughts. A small voice inside wonders if she's extending this offer out of guilt.
But then I hear Mom's words, a memory I often replay: "You've got all the talent in the world, Sienna Vale, and don't you forget it. When your opportunity arrives, you'll deserve it."
I'm like everyone else. I have insecurities about certain things, but Mom ensured I never questioned my abilities—or my capacity to improve them.
"Are you there, Sienna?"
"Yes," I reply, my mouth dry. "That sounds interesting. We could even experiment with a portmanteau."
"A what, dear?"
"A portmanteau is a literary device. It occurs when you blend two words, like breakfast and lunch."
"Brunch."
I laugh softly. "Exactly. I was thinking perhaps we could experiment with integrating images within images, like a memory captured in someone's eyes, in several pieces. I've been exploring surrealism in my personal work."
"That's a brilliant concept. I'd like to begin with a portrait of myself. When are you available?"
I reach into my pocket and pull out Mom's pendant. It's one half of a heart. She lost the other piece but always wore this as a reminder to focus on the positive, to search for the missing half rather than dwelling on what was absent. Like my dad.
What would Mom want me to do?
I haven't committed to the job yet , I attempt to say, but the words remain trapped.
"I'm free all day," I tell her. "I resigned from my position when I discovered its connection to organized crime."
"You quit ?"
"Yes," I affirm. "Because my mom died in a mob conflict. I hate them, Gianna." My voice trembles. "Understand? Despise them."
A prolonged, excruciating silence follows. I bite my fingernails anxiously. I can hear her breathing on the line, but she remains silent. Finally, she says softly, "We're not who you believe us to be, sweet girl. I promise, if you accept this opportunity, you won't regret it. I approached you solely as an art enthusiast, nothing more. Nothing else needs interfere with that."
She wants me to compartmentalize, to disregard the mob element. I clutch Mom's pendant, closing my eyes, straining to hear her voice. "Follow your dreams. You deserve this. You've grieved enough."
Gianna didn't deny her mob affiliation. Just 'we're not who you think we are.' Is that enough for me?
She's offering me the chance to explore artistic avenues previously unattainable. Grand locations, luxurious surroundings, a lifestyle I've never experienced. As someone who has lived in poverty my entire life, does that tempt me? Absolutely.
But the art—the opportunity to showcase my work... That's the genuine diamond in a city full of rhinestones.
"I will protect you, Sienna," Gianna promises. "You'll have the opportunity someone of your caliber deserves. To practice your art without distractions, without life's impediments."
I swallow hard. "I'll do it."
Am I making a pact with the devil?