Book three of the only series
They gave her one mission. They told her to find the Chicago mob Capo and get revenge. So they sent her away. She had a plan. A mindset. Goals she needed to reach.
Until she met his son.
He was supposed to be the en...
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My paint brush swept across the canvas in soft delicate strokes. Blacks overtaking the color of dark grays and dark blues. A sense of peace washed over me, a feeling of ease and distress blowing away with every dip in paint, the smell of it wavering around my apartment.
I grabbed my tiniest paint brush and quickly wrote my initials on the bottom of the canvas.
F.R.
I slipped off my stool and took a step back, tilting my head as I studied it. The breeze from the window blew inside, a chill spread up my bare legs and up the oversized shirt I had on.
Declan always told me my paintings were sad. That they had no sense of peacefulness and no color. But he was only glancing at it. He wasn't looking at it.
If he looked at this painting now he would tell me it looked like the woman was crying. But she wasn't just crying. She was picking herself back up. The dark grays and dark blues surrounding her naked body was a sign of her independence, it was a sign of strength beneath a broken soul.
A woman screaming in a world full of people that were only listening.
Yet as Declan judged, he sold my paintings all the time for millions of dollars. Did I ever get the credit? No. I didn't. Because this wasn't a woman's work in the eyes of men. Everytime Declan sold one of my art works, he would only give me less than half of the percentage. When I told him about it he told me that my art was my life.
Meaning, my debt owed to Davao.
My life.
There was nothing I could do about it. I could only take the money they gave me and work at the strip club for as many hours as I could to make rent. That's how it was living in a world where men made all the decisions.
I sat my paint brush down and checked the time. I had a half hour to get ready and make it on time to the meeting. I looked down at the paint covering my body. Declan wasn't going to be happy that I would be late, but when did I ever care what that asshole wanted.
I turned and took a shower. Afterwards, I threw on a black skin tight skirt and a black fitted t-shirt. I quickly put on my thigh high boots and my leather trench coat, grabbing my blades and that stupid gun Declan got me. I left my apartment, heading in the direction of the stairwell instead of the elevator.
Thinking of being in an elevator made chills run down my back. I couldn't be in small closed spaces like that. Everytime I walked into somewhere that was less than ten feet wide I had a panic attack. Memories from when I was eight would wrap around my throat. Sucking the air and light right out of me.
I shook the feeling off as I walked down the stairs, even these small hallways were pushing my limits. But a second later I was pushing open the door to outside. It was cloudy again, rain threatening to fall from the sky. The wind blew through my hair and against my bare legs as I walked to my Mustang.
