Page 67 of The Bonventi War

"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—"