Page 13 of The Bonventi War
I see boxes stacked in the hallway, and my neighbor across from me in 4B is struggling with a large suitcase. He looks flustered and in a hurry.
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I open the door. "Is everything okay?"
He jumps at the sound of my voice. "Oh, Raven. I didn't mean to disturb you."
"You're not disturbing me," I say, eyeing the boxes. I see Flint written on them.
Yes, James Flint. An insurance salesman who works in the Loop.
"Are you... moving out?"
He straightens up. "Yes… no, not really. It's only temporary. A few months maybe."
"Oh, okay, well, I hope everything's alright," I say hesitantly because I'm unsure how to respond.
He nods and pulls the suitcase toward the elevator.
I close the door and lean against it, letting out a heavy sigh. This is all too much. Johnny, Dad, Gio... My head spins with questions I can't answer. I must be so wound up because a neighbor whose name I forgot is plunging me into despair.
But I know what to do. What I've always done when the world becomes too chaotic—I work.
I grab my keys and head back downstairs to the gallery. The basement calls to me like an old friend. Down here, among the scent of spiked lavender oil and other solvents, everything makes sense. Each painting has a problem that can be solved, damage that can be fixed. Unlike life. Especially mine right now.
I pull out my phone, connect it to my Bluetooth speaker, and bring up a playlist. I hit the shuffle button, and Jim Morrison's voice comes through and makes me feel all right.
I immediately fall into my familiar routine that evaporates all my thoughts and nerves. I set up my cleaning solutions, arrange my tools, and prepare my workspace.
I slip on my gloves and take a seat, looking over the 18th-century landscape painting waiting for me.
"Hello, beautiful," I murmur. "Let's bring you back to life, shall we?"
The first touch of my brush to canvas makes everything else fade away. Each careful stroke is a meditation, a way to remove the chaos swirling inside me. Here, there's no fucked-up family or an imposing man with green eyes. It's just me and the artwork.
As I work, I think of the artist who originally created this and the beautiful legacy they left behind.
The thought of legacy makes me think of my mom—of the passion for art she instilled in me. Of the way her eyes would light up when she discovered a hidden masterpiece at an estate sale or finished a restoration she had spent months on.
Tears roll down my face before I even realize it. "I wish you were here, Mommy," I whisper. "You'd know what to do."
But she's not here. It's just me, alone with my thoughts.
I throw myself back into the work with renewed intensity. I refuse to let my mind drift to thoughts of Gio, of Johnny, of all the unanswered questions. Here, in this basement, I have control. I can fix things—make them whole again.
If only life were as simple as restoring a painting.
Hours pass. My back aches from hunching over the canvas, but I barely notice. I'm lost in the process.
It's only when I finally step back, stretching my cramped muscles, that I realize how much time has passed. The faint light of dawn is starting to filter through the small basement windows.
I'm happy with the progress I've made. Just 75 more to go, and I'll be out of the hole this gallery is in.
Exhaustion hits me suddenly, like a wave crashing over my body. I barely have the energy to clean my brushes and tidy up the workspace.
I make it up to my apartment, fumbling with the keys. As soon as I'm inside, I collapse onto the couch, not even bothering to change out of my paint-stained clothes.
My last coherent thought before sleep claims me is a silent prayer that soon, I'll get some answers. But for now, I let the darkness take me, hoping for a few hours of dreamless sleep before I have to face reality again.
Yet deep down, something unsettles me—like the air before a storm, and little did I know, shit was about to get a lot more fucked up.
