Underworld Princess

Chapter 11: The Art of Detestation

I hate art.

Don't get me wrong, all the colors and the intricate brush strokes were nothing short of a marvel. The fact that the human mind can lay out such a piece of work on a blank canvas with all the little details used to always have me in awe.

But when you've killed as many people as I have, you stop caring about the little things.

"Why are we here again?" I asked bluntly, walking a few inches behind Calix as he strolled leisurely through the exhibit. As far as I knew, this exhibit had a piece he really liked and so far in the last 15 minutes, he's done nothing but amble around aimlessly staring at slaps of paint on different-sized canvases.

I have passed so many naked men in the last 15 minutes.

"Calix," I breathed, almost whiningly. He halted in his walk, hands still in his trenchcoat pocket as he slowly turned to face me. There was a soft look in his eyes that I was almost surprised if this was the same stoic man from earlier.

"Do you not like art Aria?" he questioned, almost too gently. Wow, museums really take the devil out of this man, kicking and screaming.

My mother reveled in art. It was her sanctuary, an escape from the tyranny of my heartless father. Every evening, she would sit with her canvas perched against the balcony, delicately dipping her brush into colors foreign to my eyes.

She was my embodiment of art. And in her death, my ability to give any more fucks was buried with her.

"Calix, I've counted a total of 53 flaccid dicks in the last 15 minutes," I hissed impatiently, "No, I do not like art!"

I watched in bafflement as a grin split his lips at my words and a short laugh escaped. I cocked my head back in astonishment, staring as he covered his lips with his knuckles in a feeble attempt to stifle his chuckle.

"Mr Winters," His eyes flickered away from me, and the burst of emotion on his face immediately went blank as he turned to address the man waiting eagerly beside him.

"Yes?" Calix greeted him with a curt nod.

"Sir the painting is ready for viewing now," The curator splayed his hands, gesturing for Calix to follow. Calix's gaze flickered to mine over his shoulder expectantly as if telling me to come with him. I rolled my eyes but followed him nevertheless, he was my boss.

As I walked a few steps behind him, I observed all the other people who had randomly chosen a Wednesday afternoon to come to the museum to view the same damn painting my boss seemed to be interested in.

In particular, my gaze lingered a bit on a pair of small children who were running circles around their mother. A boy around the age of 8 and his little sister seemed to have gotten the short end of the stick in being the tagger in a game of chase.

The boy hung to his mother's skirt, teasing and bolting away from his sister as their mother tried to get them under control.

I couldn't help the soft smile that twitched on my lips at the sight of them. They seemed really happy.

I must've gotten distracted because the next thing I knew, I collided head-first right into Calix's back. His body immediately turned to the side and wrapped his arm around my waist, holding me up before I could lose my balance. "Distracted Aria?"

I pushed him off immediately, "No," I gritted out firmly, avoiding his smug gaze as the curator cleared his throat in front of us.

Lucky Jace was told to stay put at the entrance into the art exhibit as Calix didn't bring any of his security guards with him, considering he fired the lot of them the other day! He can fire anyone who needs a job so easily but won't dismiss me for this torture of having to parade around with him like a prized cow.

"The painting you requested sir," The curator shifted from one foot to the other awkwardly as I glared at the floor to not have to face Calix. My gaze followed the curator till it landed on the painting beside him.

Clear blue skies with the backdrop of soft clouds over lush tufts of grass. in the foreground was a lady dressed in an elegant white frock seated amongst the green over a checkered yellow blanket. A small boy sat in front of her, his head buried on her lap as her hand was in mid-shift through his jet-black hair. The boy had tears pooled in his eyes while his mother looked on, providing him with the comfort he needed.

The detail in the piece was impeccable, every muscle on the mother's soft and delicate features was oil-painted to hold so much emotion, that it almost looked like a photograph.

"This is the painting you wanted to see?" I questioned, standing beside Calix as the curator took his leave. Calix's gaze stayed trained on the painting intently, his eyes scrutinizing every stroke with this unreadable look in them.

"It's called 'consolation'," He breathed, not sparing me a look. It seemed he had forgotten about his smug attempt to make fun of me as he stared forlornly at the intricately painted canvas.

There was something about the way he never tore his eyes off the expressions on the painting that gave me a foreign feeling.

"Who's the artist?" I asked, not having a damn clue what to expect if he blurts out some fancy artist everyone and their mom knows.

"I don't know," He replied simply, "It hung in my house back in Sicily, I decided to donate it when I left,"

My eyebrows stood at the top of my head at his calm words. He just simply donated it, a piece from the house of a tech billionaire. Funny one isn't he? Come to think of it, not much is known about Calix Winters. He isn't much of a publicized man, much of his early life is dark in the press. Only a few know his involvement with the underworld and even fewer know his life before then.

At least now I know he's Sicilian.

"Fascinating, isn't it?" He didn't grant me so much as a glance as his eyes continued to revere the large canvas.  I stood next to him, arms crossed over my chest as I stared witlessly at the oil strokes without a slack of amusement.

I still hate art.

"He kind of looks like you, you know," I murmured absentmindedly, pointing at the small teary-eyed boy coddled against his mother's lap. "Black hair and all," I added, gesturing to the tufts of a raven over the boy's head in choppy tresses.

The figure of the boy's face was drawn too softly to clearly make out the color of his eyes over his pools of tears, but they were definitely a dark color.

Calix turned to me, a small amused scoff escaping his lips and he gazed at my face with bewilderment, "I suppose. Black hair is very common with Sicilian children,"

"Don't like to be associated with a crybaby, do you?" I jested with a teasing laugh. The kid was practically covered in his own snot, the artists made sure to capture that well. I'd be embarrassed if that was me too.

For a moment, Calix's mouth spread into a straight line as his stormy eyes bore into mine. His lips parted to speak but was promptly cut off by the sound of a hysterical scream ripping through the art exhibit, followed by the blasting echo of a gunshot.

My heart leaped to my throat and my body reacted on pure animal instinct as I drew my gun from my blazer just as Jace burst into the room.

"We're under attack!"