Chapter 7 Raven
RAVEN
The microwave's ding echoes through the empty apartment, but I barely register it.
I'm too lost in my thoughts. My hands move on autopilot, retrieving the sad excuse for chicken Alfredo.
Steam rises from the plastic container as I stab at the pasta with my fork.
It somehow manages to stay together in a square.
I mix it around, and it still looks terrible. At least it smells good.
I can't stop replaying Gio's words in my head. Why did Johnny try to kill his brother? It doesn't make sense. Nothing makes sense anymore.
The first bite of food turns to mush in my mouth. I push the tray away, my appetite completely gone.
I glance around the apartment, and it feels different now.
What was once a sophisticated space where my dad entertained and housed wealthy clients from out of town now feels like a cage.
Paintings line the walls, pieces waiting to be sold, their subjects watching me with judging eyes.
The small kitchen table, where I sit alone, used to host lavish wine tastings.
Now it holds only my pathetic frozen dinner and a glass of wine I'm too nauseous to drink.
My wrist throbs where Gio grabbed me. The memory of his touch burns like a brand on my skin.
"Dammit, Mom, what the hell am I supposed to do now?" I ask softly.
I reach for my phone, scrolling through my contacts until I find my dad's number. My thumb hovers over the call button. What if he answers? What would I even say?
What if he doesn't?
The thought makes my chest tighten. I drop the phone on the table, burying my face in my hands. The tears I've been holding back all day finally break free, hot and stinging against my palms.
"Fuck, Dad," I whisper, looking at my phone. "Where are you?" I ask and toss my phone on the table. I stand and make my way over to the couch.
Suddenly, a loud bang from downstairs makes me jump, my heart leaping into my throat. I freeze, straining to hear any other sounds. Nothing. Just the usual creaks and groans of the building.
Still, my nerves are on edge. I move to the window, peering down at the street below. No sign of Gio or his men. Just the usual crowds of people stumbling between bars during happy hour.
My phone buzzes on the table, making me flinch. I approach it, and oddly, I'm half-expecting to see Gio's name on the screen. Instead, it's a text from Morgan:
Steven filled me in. Everything okay? Should I be worried?
I stare at the message, unsure how to respond. How can I explain something I don't even understand myself?
My fingers hover over the keyboard as I think of a reply. Before I can type anything, another text comes through:
Also, that missing shipment? Just got an update. It's been rerouted to a warehouse on the outskirts of town. Weird, right?
That is weird. Everything always came directly to the gallery, at least that's what the invoices showed. Another piece of the puzzle that doesn't fit.
I type back quickly,
Thanks for the heads up. I'll look into it tomorrow. And don't worry about those guys. Just some entitled collectors throwing their weight around.
It's a lie, but what else can I say? Hey Morgan, turns out my dead brother might have been involved in some bullshit, and now I'm being "protected" by the guy who killed him?
Yeah, that would go over well.
I walk back over to the couch and sit down. The note Johnny left flashes through my mind.
"Protect my sister."
What the hell did it mean? What kind of mess did my brother and dad get themselves into? More importantly, what am I supposed to be protected from? Am I in real danger?
I lean back and cover my face with my hands.
Shit. I have so many questions and no answers in sight.
For a brief moment, a traitorous thought slips through my defenses—maybe having Gio around wouldn't be the worst thing. The memory of his towering presence, the way he effortlessly dealt with that asshole at the gallery. If I am in any real danger, maybe he…
No. I shake my head, banishing the thought. I don't need someone else to defend me. I've survived this long on my own, haven't I? Rebuilt myself from the ashes of my family's dysfunction after my mom's death. I sure as hell don't need some tattooed mafia thug swooping in to play hero.
Yeah, I learned about that too. That night, after his first appearance in the gallery, I looked him up online. Him, his brothers—they're all mobsters, allegedly, but he sure as hell looks like one, and I don't need that in my life.
But even as I try to convince myself, a small voice in the back of my mind whispers doubts. What if this is bigger than anything I've faced before? What if—
Another loud thud, this time from the hallway, interrupts my spiraling thoughts. I make my way to the door and peer through the peephole.
I see boxes stacked in the hallway, and my neighbor across from me in 4B is struggling with a large suitcase. He looks flustered and in a hurry.
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I open the door. "Is everything okay?"
He jumps at the sound of my voice. "Oh, Raven. I didn't mean to disturb you."
"You're not disturbing me," I say, eyeing the boxes. I see Flint written on them.
Yes, James Flint. An insurance salesman who works in the Loop.
"Are you... moving out?"
He straightens up. "Yes… no, not really. It's only temporary. A few months maybe."
"Oh, okay, well, I hope everything's alright," I say hesitantly because I'm unsure how to respond.
He nods and pulls the suitcase toward the elevator.
I close the door and lean against it, letting out a heavy sigh. This is all too much. Johnny, Dad, Gio... My head spins with questions I can't answer. I must be so wound up because a neighbor whose name I forgot is plunging me into despair.
But I know what to do. What I've always done when the world becomes too chaotic—I work.
I grab my keys and head back downstairs to the gallery.
The basement calls to me like an old friend.
Down here, among the scent of spiked lavender oil and other solvents, everything makes sense.
Each painting has a problem that can be solved, damage that can be fixed. Unlike life. Especially mine right now.
I pull out my phone, connect it to my Bluetooth speaker, and bring up a playlist. I hit the shuffle button, and Jim Morrison's voice comes through and makes me feel all right.
I immediately fall into my familiar routine that evaporates all my thoughts and nerves. I set up my cleaning solutions, arrange my tools, and prepare my workspace.
I slip on my gloves and take a seat, looking over the 18th-century landscape painting waiting for me.
"Hello, beautiful," I murmur. "Let's bring you back to life, shall we?"
The first touch of my brush to canvas makes everything else fade away. Each careful stroke is a meditation, a way to remove the chaos swirling inside me. Here, there's no fucked-up family or an imposing man with green eyes. It's just me and the artwork.
As I work, I think of the artist who originally created this and the beautiful legacy they left behind.
The thought of legacy makes me think of my mom—of the passion for art she instilled in me. Of the way her eyes would light up when she discovered a hidden masterpiece at an estate sale or finished a restoration she had spent months on.
Tears roll down my face before I even realize it. "I wish you were here, Mommy," I whisper. "You'd know what to do."
But she's not here. It's just me, alone with my thoughts.
I throw myself back into the work with renewed intensity. I refuse to let my mind drift to thoughts of Gio, of Johnny, of all the unanswered questions. Here, in this basement, I have control. I can fix things—make them whole again.
If only life were as simple as restoring a painting.
Hours pass. My back aches from hunching over the canvas, but I barely notice. I'm lost in the process.
It's only when I finally step back, stretching my cramped muscles, that I realize how much time has passed. The faint light of dawn is starting to filter through the small basement windows.
I'm happy with the progress I've made. Just 75 more to go, and I'll be out of the hole this gallery is in.
Exhaustion hits me suddenly, like a wave crashing over my body. I barely have the energy to clean my brushes and tidy up the workspace.
I make it up to my apartment, fumbling with the keys. As soon as I'm inside, I collapse onto the couch, not even bothering to change out of my paint-stained clothes.
My last coherent thought before sleep claims me is a silent prayer that soon, I'll get some answers. But for now, I let the darkness take me, hoping for a few hours of dreamless sleep before I have to face reality again.
Yet deep down, something unsettles me—like the air before a storm, and little did I know, shit was about to get a lot more fucked up.