Chapter 4 Raven
RAVEN
Iwatch, almost frozen, as the man makes his way back toward me, his powerful frame moving across the gallery floor. I look at him, and something flutters at the back of my mind. I know him from somewhere.
As he comes closer, his tattoos catch my attention—intricate designs covering his hands, disappearing under his sleeves, and reappearing as they crawl up his neck.
Even through the expensive, tailored suit, I can tell he's built like a tank—muscle and grit. The kind of man who could snap someone in half without breaking a sweat.
He stops in front of me, towering and intimidating. My eyes trace the sharp lines of his jaw, the intensity in his green eyes. I hate to admit it, but he's undeniably attractive in that terrifying sort of way. Like admiring a beautiful, poisonous snake.
Those green eyes of his look me up and down, and I feel stripped bare despite being fully clothed. I also feel like I need to tell him that I could have handled things myself. I'm no damsel in distress.
"Thank you," I say, hating how breathy my voice sounds as my heart beats against my ribcage.
I clear my throat and add more firmly, "But I could have handled him myself."
He gives me a smirk, clearly amused by my statement. His green eyes continue to pierce into me. "Could you now?"
"Yes," I snap, irritation flaring as my fight-or-flight emotions kick in. "I don't need someone swooping in to save me. I've been dealing with entitled assholes like that my entire career," I say, pointing to the door.
The man looks over his shoulder, following my finger, and then back at me. "Is that so?"
"Yes," I insist, straightening my spine. "Unfortunately, lots of his type in the art world, which I suppose you're a part of as well since you're here—so how can I help you?"
"I'm not here because I'm interested in art."
"Okay," I say with a long pause. "Look, I appreciate what you did, but I'm fine now. You can go."
He doesn't move. Instead, he takes a step closer, and I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.
"I'm not going anywhere just yet. I came here for a reason."
"Oh?" I raise an eyebrow. "And what might that be?"
"I'm looking for someone," he says. "Ravenna Carvello."
My breath catches in my throat.
There's no reason someone who looks like him should be looking for someone like me.
"Who wants to know?" I say, trying to act calm.
He gives me a dark smile. "My name is Gio Bonventi."
That's when it hits me. The recognition slams into me like a physical blow. Suddenly, I remember where I've seen him before. Images flash through my mind—newspapers, internet articles, short news clips.
This is the man who killed Johnny.
Granted, it was because he tried to kill Gio's brother, Marco Bonventi, but still. I don't want to be a part of any of it. And why the fuck is he here?
I feel my stomach instantly turn to ice. He has to leave.
"I think you should go."
Gio looks at me for a moment, his eyes narrowing, and then I see his gaze relax.
"It's you, isn't it? You know, I thought from the images, but that was before you left. What, five—six years ago?"
I take a deep breath, trying to calm the storm of emotions swirling inside me.
"Does it matter?" I snap, my voice barely containing my rising fury. "We're done here. I've told the police all I know, which is nothing, and no, I don't know where my dad is. So please, get the hell out of here and just leave me alone."
I turn around and walk briskly to the front desk, needing to get away. My heels click loudly on the tile as I walk. I clench my hands into fists, trying to hide the slight shake. I'm not sure if it's from genuine fear, nerves, or adrenaline.
"Wait, your dad?" Gio's voice carries a hint of surprise, and I hear his footsteps following close behind me.
Shit. He's not leaving. What do I do?
I ignore him, reaching for the phone on the desk. I turn to him as he's approaching and pick up the phone. "If you don't leave, I'm calling the police."
Without hesitation, Gio's massive frame is there, leaning over the desk. His hand shoots out, snatching the phone from my grasp. The force of it makes me stumble back. His large hand slams the phone down. I jerk back, startled.
"Try that again," he growls, "and I'll break that fucking phone into a million pieces." He grips the desk with both hands, his muscles rippling beneath his suit. "Now, Ravenna, tell me about your dad."
The threat in his voice makes me nauseous. I take an involuntary step back, trying to put some distance between me and this psychopath, my hip bumping against something, but I don't even look—I'm not taking my eyes off of him.
"Okay, first off, it's Raven, and second of all, are you fucking crazy? Who do you think you are that you can come into my gallery and what? Because you removed someone harassing me, you think that gives you a pass to then harass me yourself?"
I see his jaw clenching, his neck tattoos shifting as he tenses up, thinking of his response to me.
I don't want it. I just want this asshole gone.
"He's gone," I continue, my voice rising. "And no, I don't know where. He's not exactly Father of the Year material. I haven't seen him in years."
I pause, memories of my dad and Johnny flashing through my mind. The lies, the half-truths, the shady dealings disguised as legitimate business. My stomach churns as I remember how they'd bend the truth to sell paintings, manipulating clients and fabricating artwork origins.
"Him and my brother always..." I trail off, shaking my head.
"It doesn't matter. I've got enough on my plate trying to run this damn place and deal with the mountain of work they just left behind.
Because if I don't, then people will want their money back, and guess what?
Where the hell is that money supposed to come from? "
My chest heaves as I struggle to catch my breath. The words are pouring out of me now, unstoppable.
"So please," I spit out, my voice laced with frustration and anger, "just leave me the fuck alone."
Gio doesn't respond immediately. Instead, he rounds the desk, closing the distance between us. I stumble back, nearly falling into a chair, but I force myself to remain standing. His eyes bore into mine, searching for something—a lie, perhaps, or some secret I'm keeping from him.
"Your father," Gio says, his voice low and controlled, "Frank Carvello. Is that right?"
I don't answer. This time, it's my jaw clenching.
Gio leans down, invading my personal space. His cologne, something expensive and spicy, fills my nostrils. I can feel the heat radiating off his body, see the faint stubble on his face. He's so close I can make out the individual flecks of gold in his green eyes.
"Your dad's name," he repeats, more insistent this time.
I swallow hard, my throat dry. "Yes. Frank Carvello," I confirm, hating how small my voice sounds.
He nods slowly, processing this information. Then his eyes lock onto mine again.
"And the Russians? What do you know about them?"
I blink, confusion momentarily overriding my fear and anger. "Like, people? That they're either from or live in Russia? What the hell do you mean?"
A low growl escapes Gio's throat. "You know what I mean."
"Uh, I don't," I shoot back, finding any spark of defiance I have. "Seriously, this is the part where you leave."
Instead of leaving, Gio lifts his hands. I flinch, my body tensing for a blow that doesn't come. His fingers brush my shoulder, and I feel something fall away. He's picked off a piece of lint or fuzz, I realize, and watches as he tosses it to the ground.
"You'll see me again, Raven" he says, his voice a promise and a threat all at once.
He turns to walk away.
"Hopefully not," I reply without thinking.
Gio stops, his back to me. For a moment, I think he might turn around, might come back and do… what? I don't know. But I sure as hell don't want to find out.
He doesn't.
Instead, he keeps walking, pushing through the gallery doors and stepping out onto the street.
I watch through the window as he slides into the back of a sleek, all-black Rolls-Royce, and someone drives him away.
"Um, who the heck was that?" a timid voice asks from behind me.
I turn to see Morgan cautiously approaching, her wide eyes fixed on the door Gio just exited through—her expression a mixture of fear and curiosity.
I take a deep, shuddering breath, trying to compose myself.
"A nightmare," I mutter. "One I hope to never see again."