Page 25 of Seduced By the Mafia Don

"Everything secure here?"

He nods. "Yes, sir. Mrs. Moretti is completing her portrait session."

Which would explain her lack of communication. For once, she's been forced to sit still.

I return to my car, contemplating my next move. This confirms Sienna accepted the commission. Despite her protestations about being too occupied, and the hatred in her eyes, she consented. I'm increasingly intrigued by her. I want to understand her change of heart. I want to witness that defiant expression again, the fire in her eyes.

After deliberating briefly, I decide to enter. I ascend Mom's grand staircase and walk into her impressive home, closing the door quietly when I hear their conversation. Mother is speaking as I enter.

"...your ability to maintain concentration while I fidget about is truly remarkable, dear."

"I've captured the expression I want," Sienna replies, sounding absorbed and focused. I can easily envision her leaning toward the canvas with that spark of artistic intensity. "You return to it frequently, even while talking. Then I progressively incorporate additional details."

"Who taught you this technique?"

"Nobody. I simply love pencils. I once had a set, probably cheap and tacky, but Mom purchased it for me, and I treasured it. I used to sketch alone during breaks because... well, it was sometimes easier."

"Oh, you poor thing."

"No, it was nothing like that," Sienna quickly clarifies. "I wasn't bullied, exactly. I just wasn't included. I didn't belong. All I craved was drawing and painting."

“It’s certainly paid off, Sienna," Mom asserts confidently. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-three."

"You've reached a proficiency most artists don't achieve until their forties."

Sienna laughs with endearing awkwardness. "I suppose solitude has its advantages."

"And now that you've mastered your craft, you can afford to socialize with meddlesome old women like myself."

"Ha, indeed. It’s not so bad to be older."

"Coming from the twenty-three-year-old!"

“You’ve got experience, wisdom, maturity," Sienna says.

Mom guffaws. "Me? Mature? Those are fighting words, missy."

Sienna laughs. I'm grinning like a fool listening to their exchange.

"Please, Gianna, I need to concentrate."

"Am I easier or more challenging to draw than my son?"

"Easier," Sienna admits. "But please."

My mother likely wants to inquire further—she always does—but Sienna falls silent. I decide it's time to announce my presence. I've eavesdropped long enough.

She glances at me as I enter the spacious living room, then maintains her position. "Hello, my boy."

I nod toward her cell phone on the adjacent table. She winces, then shoots me an apologetic look. She understands the protocol when high-ranking Family members become unreachable. We exist in the shadow of conflict, and I've implemented measures to prevent history from repeating itself.

"Hello, Sienna," I say.

She looks so beautiful in her conflicted state. Does that make me a monster for thinking that? She embodies artistic elegance today in her oversized sweater, sleeves rolled up, hair braided over one shoulder. "Hey."

"I didn't intend to interrupt your work."

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