Chapter 29 Raven
RAVEN
"Shit, shit, shit!" I slam the brush down, splattering red paint across the drafting table. The forgery isn't working. Or rather, I'm not working. My hands won't stop shaking.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Gio's face. The way his expression hardened when he realized what I was doing. The flash of betrayal in his eyes before the anger took over.
I don't even know if I meant the words in the moment, but now, when I go over things in my head, they feel hollow.
I grab a rag and furiously wipe at the paint on my hands, but it's stubborn. Permanent. Like the mess I've made of everything.
"You need to focus, Ravenna." My father's voice pierces my nerves. "We don't have time for your crisis of conscience."
I glare at him across the basement studio. He's hunched like a vulture over his own canvas. Some of the bruises on his face have begun to yellow at the edges.
"Don't tell me what I need," I snap, tossing the stained rag aside. "You lost that right when you tried to sell me to the Russians."
He doesn't look up. "I'm trying to keep us both alive."
"No, you're trying to save yourself. Like always."
My father sighs, finally meeting my eyes. "The painting, Ravenna. Just do the painting."
I turn back to my canvas, a simple landscape. As I grab the brush, I look down and see my Raven tattoo.
What would mom really think?
The thought slips in, and a knot forms in my throat. She taught me to respect art, to understand its soul. She showed me how restoration was an act of love—preserving beauty for future generations.
She'd be disgusted by what I'm doing now.
"It's not right," I mutter.
"It doesn't need to be perfect. It just needs to pass authentication."
"That's not what I meant." I set down the brush. "None of this is right."
My father makes an impatient sound. "We've been over this. Either we do this, or the they take you—or kill us both."
"And Gio?"
"What about him?" My father's tone hardens. "He's a mobster, Ravenna. A killer. You think he's any different from those Russian thugs?"
Yes, I want to say. He is different. He looks at me like I'm worth something. Like I matter.
But I didn't see that. I only saw the control, the possessiveness. I pushed him away when maybe—just maybe—he was the one person actually trying to help me.
The realization sits heavy in my chest. I've spent my whole life being what other people needed. The dutiful daughter. The talented conservator. The substitute for my mother.
When did I ever choose for myself?
"I need some air," I say suddenly, standing up.
"Raven—"
"I'll be right back." I grab a blank canvas from the stack. "I need some black ink. The pigment we have isn't right."
My father looks skeptical. "We have plenty of materials."
"Not for what I need." I'm already heading for the stairs. "I'll be quick."
He sighs, setting down his brush. "I might not be here when you get back. I need to run an errand."
I stop mid-step, turning to face him. "An errand? Now?"
"I need to check on something. I'll be back in the morning." He doesn't meet my eyes.
The old fear crawls into my mind, the one that always appears when he's hiding something. "What kind of errand?"
"Just something I need to take care of." He waves his hand dismissively. "Nothing for you to worry about."
That's exactly what he said before disappearing for three months when I was sixteen. Right after Mom died.
"Dad—"
"I'll be back in the morning," he repeats, firmer this time. "Just keep working."
The dismissal stings. In his eyes, I'm still just a tool. A means to an end.
And maybe that's all I've ever been to him.
I clutch the canvas tighter and continue up the stairs without another word. I move through the gallery, my footsteps echoing in the emptiness. At the workstation near my office, I pull out a bottle of black acrylic paint.
For a moment, I just stare at the blank canvas. I think of Gio, of how my dad compared him to the men after us, after me.
But he isn't.
He's never asked me for anything but the truth. Never expected me to be anything but myself.
And what have I given him in return?
I don't know, but not the same. Hell, I sided with my father.
The one who would discard me to save his own skin.
The realization hits me so hard I think I almost feel the blow.
I've been loyal to the wrong person all along.
Without thinking, I squeeze paint onto my palm and press my hand against the canvas, smearing it in violent, chaotic strokes.
But when I stop and look back, I only see one word. Something I truly am.
Sorry.
I look down at my paint-stained hand. They're shaking again, but not from fear or anger. From clarity.
I've spent my life being who others needed me to be, doing what others needed me to do. For my father. For Johnny.
Never for myself.
Never for what I wanted.
And what do I want?
The answer comes with surprising ease—I want Gio.
I want his strength, his protection, his intensity. I want the way he looks at me like I'm the only woman in the world.
I've been so afraid of being controlled that I didn't see what he was offering. Not ownership—partnership. Protection without imprisonment, all wrapped up in the only way Gio knew how to present it.
My gaze falls on the camera in the corner of the gallery. The one Gio installed to keep me safe. Is he watching now? Does he still care enough to watch?
Without hesitating, I grab the canvas and run up to my apartment. I knock on his door, step back, and hold it up.
He doesn't answer.
I knock again, and still no answer.
I think for a moment, then spin around and enter my apartment. I take an easel and set the painting on it. I turn it and position it right at his camera so he can read what I truly am, expressed in my own way, the way I know how.
I wait a few minutes, expecting something to happen. I don't know what. A knock at my door? A phone call maybe? I reach into my pocket.
Shit, I left it in the basement.
I want something to happen, but nothing comes.
Defeat, regret, and all the emotions I don't like feeling come flooding in. I look at the stupid coffee maker and feel like I'm going to cry.
Maybe I should head back to the basement for my phone, Gio might try to call.
I return to an empty room—my father is gone.
Of course, he is.
I reach into my bag for my phone, hoping for something, but there are no missed calls or texts.
I toss it back into my bag, devastated. As I set it down, I see Gio's AirTag.
I don't know why, but I take it out and slip it into my pocket.
It's not much, but it's something from him, and that makes me feel a tiny bit better.
I sigh and get to work. A few hours pass, and just as I'm finishing up, a creak from upstairs breaks my train of thought.
I freeze, listening. The gallery is closed. No one should be here.
Another sound—footsteps, heavier than my father's.
My heart pounds against my ribs. I back away from the workstation, eyes darting around for something to use as a weapon.
I look up at Gio's camera.
"What the hell?" I say out loud. It's covered with a small piece of cloth. Who did that?
More footsteps. And then voices. Low, murmured. One of them—my father's.
"Dad?" I call out.
Silence. And then the sound of multiple feet on the stairs.
My father appears first, head down, shoulders slumped. Behind him, three men in dark suits descend the staircase. They're tall, broad-shouldered, with the hard eyes of predators.
Oh my god, he wouldn't have.
"Dad?" I repeat, backing away. "What's happening?"
"I'm sorry," he says, his voice breaking. "I'm sorry, Raven. It's the only way. The only way."
The men move forward, spreading out like hunters cornering prey.
"You're coming with us," one of them says in a thick Russian accent.
I shake my head, still backing away. "No. I'm not going anywhere."
The man smiles—cold, humorless. "Your father disagrees."
I look at my dad, still standing with his head bowed, refusing to look at me. "Dad? What have you done?"
"I had to," he whispers. "They were going to kill me. Kill us both. The forgeries wouldn't have worked. This way, at least you live."
"Live? As what? Their slave?" The words rip from my throat.
One of the men laugh. "Such drama. You Americans, always so theatrical."
He nods to his companions, who move toward me with casual confidence.
Shit. They're blocking my only way out. I grab a painting and throw it at them.
They dodge it, and a large hand catches me by the arm, yanking me toward him. I cry out as pain shoots through my shoulder.
"Don't make this difficult," the Russian says, his grip tightening.
I fight back, kicking and scratching, aiming for eyes, throat, groin—anywhere vulnerable. I connect with something soft, and a man grunts in pain.
Their amusement vanishes, replaced by cold, quiet anger. A hand tangles in my hair, wrenching my head back. Another slaps me hard across the face. A bright flash of white explodes in my vision, followed by a sharp, stinging pain.
"Enough!" the first man snarls.
Through the ringing in my ears, I hear my father pleading. "Don't hurt her! You promised not to hurt her!"
"Shut the fuck up," the Russian snaps, then looks at me. "She acts like a bitch, she'll be treated like one."
I taste blood in my mouth. My cheek throbs where he struck me.
They drag me toward the stairs, two men gripping my arms so tightly I know they'll leave bruises. I struggle against them, but it's useless.
"Dad!" I scream. "Dad, please!"
Suddenly, a body-numbing blow lands in my stomach. I double over, gasping for air.
There's so much rage in me, but I can't get any words out as my lungs fight to breathe.
I hear my dad babbling, but I can't make out the words anymore.
My body finally finds air, but it comes too late. Two of the men haul me up the stairs, my feet barely touching the ground.
"Stop it!" I yell, my voice raw. "Let me go!"
The third man follows behind, laughing at my struggle. My father remains frozen at the bottom of the stairs, his hands covering his face.
"Dad!" I scream. "Don't do this! Don't let them take me!"
He doesn't respond.
We reach the top of the stairs, and they drag me through the darkened gallery.
A glimpse of my reflection catches my eye. My hair is a mess, my lip is bleeding, and my face is red.
I twist violently in their grip, managing to break one arm free. I swing wildly, my nails raking the cheek of the nearest man. He curses in Russian before switching to English.
"You fucking bitch!"
He backhands me across the face with such force that stars explode behind my eyes.
I crumple to the floor. Blood leaks from my nose. For a moment, I think I might blackout, but I fight to stay conscious. Through the haze, I feel rough hands grabbing my hair, using it like a handle to drag me across the floor.
Pain sears my scalp. My hands fly up to grip his wrist, trying to alleviate the pressure, but his hold only tightens.
"Please," I gasp. "Stop—"
"Shut up," the man growls, yanking harder.
My vision blurs as tears mix with blood. The gallery doors are getting closer, and with sickening clarity, I understand that once I'm through them, I'm gone. Disappeared. Like so many others who crossed the wrong people.
I think of Gio, of his promise to protect me. Where is he now? The irony cuts deeper than any physical pain. I pushed away the one person who could have prevented this.
They drag me through the door.
"Get the fuck up," the one gripping my hair commands, pulling hard enough to make me stand.
A black car idles at the curb, its trunk already open like a waiting coffin.
"No!" I thrash wildly, finding a last reserve of strength. "Help! Somebody help me!"
My screams go unanswered, bouncing off the empty street, swallowed by the night.
"Bag this сука," someone says.
My vision goes dark as a thick cloth is shoved over my head and my wrists burn as rope is wrapped around them.
Two men lift me off the ground, carrying me toward the vehicle while I kick and squirm blindly.
Then they hoist me higher, swinging me toward the open trunk. They toss me in like a bag of garbage. My head strikes something hard, and my vision blurs.
"Let me go!" I sob, knowing it's futile but unable to stop.
The trunk lid squeaks as it begins to close, and in that final sliver of time, desperation claws at me. A name bursts from my lips—not my father's, not a stranger's, but the only name that matters.
"GIO!"
The cry comes from somewhere deeper than fear, somewhere raw and honest that I've been denying. It's not just a call for help; it's a recognition, an admission that's been building since the moment he entered my gallery.
He's my savior, and I pray to God he'll come and save me.
Please, Gio. Come for me.