Bunny |18+|

Ch.31

Domenico

Winter's breath blew against the glass pane that took up the wall of the studio, begging entry as I walked over towards the barrier to inspect the outdoor garden. Of course, everything was covered in frost as snow fluttered down to the Earth, forming a comfortable fluffy coat.

I hummed quietly, taking in the tranquility of it all. It wasn't often that I'd linger around, doing jack shit. I was a busy man of course, but with the whole Alejandro investigation sorted out and progressing, I found the opportunity to enjoy the simpler things in life. Feeling the sudden spike in temperature as I drew near, I reached for the white linen curtains.

"Leave it open," my mother insisted, not bothering to look over her shoulder at me. "I still need to see my painting."

"I can turn on the light for you, mama," I suggested, looking down at the little table of food spread for her, set down by one of the maids. My hand hovered over, picking out the grapes and popping them in my mouth.

"Ah, shh," she hushed me, finally spinning in her seat and giving me a displeased look. "I need natural light to see the colours. Warm light made my canvas look saturated the last time."

I rolled my eyes at her tantrum, walking over to stand behind her as she did her work. On the canvas, a gorgeous bare woman sat on a stool, cradling what seemed to be a pillow wrapped in a blanket, her hair spilling over her shoulders and her breasts as she looked down at the object with loving eyes. Everything blanco, except for the woman's peppered skin and hair as dark as obsidian. The painting seemed so realistic I could've sworn it looked like a photograph, though squinting my eyes at it only managed to pull the brush textures out from hiding.

My eyes trailed down the canvas, noticing the streaks of red on the woman's lower stomach, completed with what seemed to be tears of gold. It wasn't overly big, nor flashy but held a tragedy I couldn't seem to piece together.

"Beautiful," I breathed, studying the painting. My mother smiled in my peripheral view, making her shoulders dance as she giddily went back to dipping her brush into the paint. "What's this one called?"

"I haven't thought of a name for it yet," she muttered, coating the brush in a thick layer of oil before brushing it over the thinner shade on the canvas, "It's about miscarriage and grief, showing a poor woman cradling a pillow to help her find comfort from the loss of her baby."

My mama's lips pursed in empathy, tracing a darker shade of brown over the outline of the woman's skin. "It was heavily inspired by that painting of the mother and a log, and knowing I've got to attend a black tie event in a month or so, I thought I'd use my spare time to make a painting to donate."

I nodded, my mama leaning over to grab her glass of rose wine before taking a sip. I loved seeing her happy, of the people in my family she deserved it the most. She's got papa to thank for her success anyways, since being the stubborn man he is, Vincent Arlo Guerra blessed his wife with the best life he could possibly offer to her.

Despite receiving backlash from the famiglia, my papa wanted to give her freedom she'd never touched before, unlike previous spouses of those type of men.

My lips curved at the thought, watching my mama raise her chin up to me with a kind smile. "Domenico, baby. Can you get your mama some food from the spread?" she cooed, turning back to her painting. "Leave out the green olives."