Page 131 of Beneath the Shadows

The crowd begins to flow in, their eyes bright with curiosity and appreciation. The energy shifts as people move through the space, pausing to admire each photograph, discussing the depth and beauty of the images.

I stand slightly to the side with Antonio, observing the initial reactions. It's a surreal feeling watching strangers connect with the moments I've captured. Each person is drawn to different elements of the imagery. Some pause longer at the urban landscapes, discussing the vivid contrasts and textures, while others are captivated by the emotional depth of the black and white portraits.

Antonio squeezes my hand, a silent gesture of support and shared joy. We make our way deeper into the crowd, ready to engage with our guests. As I meet the eyes of several attendees, their faces light up with recognition and they offer their congratulations.

A woman approaches me with a bright smile. "Your work is incredible. This piece," she gestures to a shot of a vintage boat on the lake, "it’s so evocative. It feels like I’m right there."

"Thank you," I say, my heart swelling with pride. "I’m glad it resonates with you."

As the night progresses, the gallery buzzes with excitement. The air is filled with the scent of champagne and the sound of murmured appreciation. I continue to make my way through the crowd. My heart swells with each compliment

Tonight is beyond anything I’d ever dared to dream.

In the midst of the evening, Ophelia approaches me with an apologetic smile. “I hate to interrupt, but I need to steal you away for a moment. One of your pieces sold before the doors even opened. The buyer specifically requested your signature. I meant to tell you earlier but it slipped my mind.”

“Of course,” I say.

She smiles gratefully. “I left it on my workbench in the back.”

Turning to the group of guests I’ve been speaking with I offer a warm smile. “Please excuse me for a moment.” My heels click softly against the floor as I head toward the back room.

Once inside, I glance around, expecting to see the piece laid out for me, but the workbench is empty. Confused, I search the room, check the shelves, and bend down to sift through the framed pictures stacked beneath the table.

While I’m still crouched, a soft rustling sound catches my attention from the corner of the room. Assuming it’s Ophelia, I straighten up and call out, “I’m glad you came back. I can’t seem to find the picture anywhere.” I stand and look toward the sound, waiting for her to answer.

But before I can process anything else, a sharp sting pierces my neck. My hand flies up instinctively, but it’s too late. Dizziness washes over me, and the room tilts violently. Panic surges through me as I try to scream, but my voice won’t come. My legs buckle beneath me. The last thing I feel are strong arms catching me as everything fades into darkness.

Antonio

The evening hums with the soft buzz of conversation and laughter, punctuated occasionally by the clinking of glasses. I stand amid a small group of new fans of Alessia’s work, but my attention’s divided. My gaze often drifting across the room, searching for her in the crowd. She moves among the guests with a quiet grace that makes her appear as if she’s floating. The pride swelling in my chest is almost unbearable. This is her night—her dream come to life.

“I’d love for your wife to do a commissioned piece,” one of the men says. “Would she be willing to do that?”

“You’ll have to ask her,” I reply with a smile, scanning the room again. “Though, I seem to have lost track of her.” Concern nudges at the edges of my thoughts. “Excuse me,” I say, stepping away from the group.

“When you find her, send her my way,” he calls after me, but I barely hear him as I push through the crowd, eyes scanning for Alessia.

I move from one cluster of guests to the next, searching every corner of the gallery, but there’s no sign of her. Reaching Ophelia, I try to keep my voice level. “Have you seen Alessia recently?”

“She went to the back to sign a piece for a collector,” Ophelia says, her tone light. “It shouldn’t take long.”

“Thank you. I’ll go check on her.”

“Before you do, could you help me with this frame?” she asks, motioning toward a crooked display.

I pause, torn. I glance at the back room and then to the frame. Reluctantly, I make a quick adjustment, then another, and another until Ophelia’s finally satisfied. But as I’m about to step away again, she asks, “Could I trouble you with one more thing? The light on the?—”

“I need to check on Alessia first,” I cut in, unable to shake the feeling that something’s wrong. Without waiting for her reply, I hurry to the back room.

“Alessia?” I call out, pushing the door open, but silence greets me. I step further inside and notice the door to the alley slightly ajar. A cool breeze slips through the crack, sending a chill through me. I move swiftly, my steps almost noiseless as I approach the door.

That’s when I see it—a knife pinning a note with an unmistakably ominous message to the workbench.

Like the rarest of vintages, Alessia’s been locked away.

Hidden deep where no one can find, in shadows cold and gray.

Panic tightens its grip as I whip out my phone to call Dante. Knowing every second counts, I curse myself for letting her out of my sight, even for a moment.

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