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"I want a snapshot of my life, my friends, my hobbies, my outfits, my family... my son."

She pronounces 'son' as if testing me. Did Nico mention something to her? I don’t like the thought of them talking about me behind my back. Yet, paradoxically, I'm somewhat flattered by the notion of occupying Nico's thoughts. A small voice inside wonders if she's extending this offer out of guilt.

But then I hear Mom's words, a memory I often replay:"You've got all the talent in the world, Sienna Vale, and don't you forget it. When your opportunity arrives, you'll deserve it."

I'm like everyone else. I have insecurities about certain things, but Mom ensured I never questioned my abilities—or my capacity to improve them.

"Are you there, Sienna?"

"Yes," I reply, my mouth dry. "That sounds interesting. We could even experiment with a portmanteau."

"A what, dear?"

"A portmanteau is a literary device. It occurs when you blend two words, like breakfast and lunch."

"Brunch."

I laugh softly. "Exactly. I was thinking perhaps we could experiment with integrating images within images, like a memory captured in someone's eyes, in several pieces. I've been exploring surrealism in my personal work."

"That's a brilliant concept. I'd like to begin with a portrait of myself. When are you available?"

I reach into my pocket and pull out Mom's pendant. It's one half of a heart. She lost the other piece but always wore this as a reminder to focus on the positive, to search for the missing half rather than dwelling on what was absent. Like my dad.

What would Mom want me to do?

I haven't committed to the job yet, I attempt to say, but the words remain trapped.

"I'm free all day," I tell her. "I resigned from my position when I discovered its connection to organized crime."

"Youquit?"

"Yes," I affirm. "Because my mom died in a mob conflict. I hate them, Gianna." My voice trembles. "Understand? Despise them."

A prolonged, excruciating silence follows. I bite my fingernails anxiously. I can hear her breathing on the line, but she remains silent. Finally, she says softly, "We're not who you believe us to be, sweet girl. I promise, if you accept this opportunity, you won't regret it. I approached you solely as an art enthusiast, nothing more. Nothing else needs interfere with that."

She wants me to compartmentalize, to disregard the mob element. I clutch Mom's pendant, closing my eyes, straining to hear her voice."Follow your dreams. You deserve this. You've grieved enough."

Gianna didn't deny her mob affiliation. Just 'we're not who you think we are.' Is that enough for me?

She's offering me the chance to explore artistic avenues previously unattainable. Grand locations, luxurious surroundings, a lifestyle I've never experienced. As someone who has lived in poverty my entire life, does that tempt me? Absolutely.

But the art—the opportunity to showcase my work... That's the genuine diamond in a city full of rhinestones.

"I will protect you, Sienna," Gianna promises. "You'll have the opportunity someone of your caliber deserves. To practice your art without distractions, without life's impediments."

I swallow hard. "I'll do it."

Am I making a pact with the devil?

ChapterNine

Nico

The following afternoon, I arrive outside my mother's residence. She's been unreachable for two hours, which has heightened my anxiety since she's provided no explanation. She nearly always responds to texts.

My men are vetting Viktor's party. I doubt he'd be reckless enough to strike publicly, but I'd never underestimate a scumbag like him. Outside Mother's home, Bruno sits in a sedan with tinted windows. He rolls one down as I approach, chewing on a toothpick.

"Sir," he acknowledges.