Chapter 8 - BLOOD ON THE COBBLESTONESThe exchange took place in the North End.
Rain.
Cobblestones.
Old warehouse.
Michael tied to a chair.
Isabella stood beneath industrial lights.
“You brought it?”
Elena held the wrapped canvas.
“Yes.”
Dante’s men remained hidden.
Isabella smiled.
“You look different.”
“Less poor?”
“Less afraid.”
Elena almost laughed.
“Fear didn't disappear.”
“I just got tired of obeying it.”
Isabella’s eyes sharpened.
“Give me the painting.”
“Release Michael.”
“No.”
Elena stared.
“Then this is boring.”
She turned.
Isabella raised a pistol.
Dante stepped from the shadows.
“Drop it.”
Then gunfire.
Everything shattered.
Michael fell sideways.
Elena ran.
Dante returned fire.
Isabella’s mercenaries moved.
One attacker charged Elena.
She grabbed a metal bar.
Swung.
He dropped.
The old version of Elena would have hated that she could do this.
The new version hated that circumstances made it necessary.
She reached Michael.
Cut the restraints.
“Can you walk?”
“Maybe.”
“Bad answer.”
They moved.
Then Isabella appeared.
Pistol.
“Elena.”
She turned.
“You ruined everything.”
“No.”
Elena breathed.
“Your father did.”
“He built everything.”
“He built something that required children and waitresses to die.”
Isabella’s face twisted.
“He protected us.”
There.
Same disease.
Different family.
Protection.
Control.
Possession.
Before Isabella fired, Dante shot her shoulder.
She fell.
Alive.
Dante reached Elena.
“Are you hit?”
“No.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
Then the police arrived.
Isabella was arrested.
Michael survived.
The painting survived too.
Barely.
Elena stared at bullet holes through her restored canvas.
“Fantastic.”
Dante almost laughed.
“You can paint another.”
She looked at him.
“That is the point, isn't it?”
He frowned.
She smiled.
“I can.”
For years she thought losing art school meant the artist version of herself had died.
Now?
No.
She could paint another.
She could build another life.
Nothing needed to be preserved exactly to remain meaningful.
That night Dante confessed:
“I love you.”
Elena stared.
Bad timing.
Very Dante.
“Is that a threat?”
He smiled.
“Apparently my communication style needs work.”
“Yes.”
“Then let me try again.”
He took her hand.
Not pulling.
Not owning.
Just holding.
“I love you.”
“I don't expect an answer tonight.”
Better.
May you like
Elena smiled.
“Progress.”
Related Stories
