The Mafia Princess He Abandoned Became An Art Queen Chapter 03
To celebrate my return to the Conti family, Don and Donna Conti decided to throw a gala.
Two days before the event, Irene knocked on my door.
She held out a dress, elaborate and gaudy, dripping in diamonds, so flashy it hurt to look at.
It was obviously expensive.
But it was Irene’s style, not mine.
If I wore it, I’d look like a bad imitation of her.
I didn’t take it. “I’ve already chosen my own dress.”
I’d already told them I didn’t want the gala at all. They insisted anyway.
Irene’s eyes filled with tears. “You don’t like it? I just wanted everyone to know how much the Conti family values you.”
From the sofa, Don Conti slammed the papers in his hand onto the table.
“Irene spent days picking that dress for you. Like it or not, you’ll wear it. That’s what she wants, and you’ll respect that.”
She lowered her head and bit her lip, the perfect picture of wounded innocence.
To the outside world, she was one of New York’s most talked-about young painters.
Family foundations, art magazines, auction previews, celebrity collectors, she had all of it.
Since coming back to the estate, I’d looked through her catalog from the past few years.
It wasn’t bad, exactly.
But it wasn’t nearly as good as her reputation suggested.
And stranger still, her style had changed dramatically.
Her early work was mediocre, the kind of stiff academic imitation you see from students. But in her later series, it was as if an entirely different person had taken over the brush.
There was also something oddly familiar about those later pieces, something that kept nagging at me.
I said nothing.
I took the dress and nodded.
Then I turned around and texted Melissa: Get me a dress for a gala.
The night of the gala, I curled up on the sofa in the private lounge, clutching my stomach, my face pale.
“I have cramps. You go ahead. I’ll come when I feel better.”
Don Conti rolled his eyes and led Donna Conti, Irene, and Mario out into the hall.
The second the door closed, I straightened up and slipped out.
The dress Melissa had sent that morning was waiting in a car outside.
Smoky gray silk. A limited-edition couture gown worn by last year’s Cannes Best Actress on the red carpet, borrowed from her private collection.
Melissa knew I was making my Conti debut and lent it to me without hesitation.
I changed, took a breath, and stepped out into the garden.
The room fell silent, as if someone had cut every conversation off mid-sentence.
Every eye turned to me.
Including Mario’s. His smile froze, champagne glass suspended in midair.
Irene’s fingers tightened around her own glass.
Someone nearby recognized the dress and whispered in awe, “My God, isn’t that Sylvia Lynch’s couture piece? You can’t get that on loan, no matter how much money you have.”
“The Contis’ long-lost daughter is stunning. You can tell she’s one of them.”
My old social anxiety hit all at once. My ears burned, and my heart pounded against my ribs.
I forced myself to stand straight, gripped the folds of my dress, and walked forward one step at a time.
My face stayed calm and cool.
Irene rushed over and linked her arm through mine.
“Rossella, come on. Let me introduce you to some senior members of the North American Art Association.”
She led me over to a cluster of men in tailored suits, her voice dripping with sugar.
“Rossella is a new painter. She hasn’t made much of a name for herself yet, so I hope you’ll take her under your wing.”
The men looked me up and down with smirks on their faces.
“Getting into the Association takes real talent. A pretty face doesn’t get you far.”
“Exactly. Every little amateur thinks she can get in. The bar isn’t that low.”
I tapped the rim of my glass and said nothing.
Their conversation drifted to the Association’s upcoming presidential election.
One board member sighed. “Irene, your rival’s piece Crossing has really been picking up momentum. He’s practically a lock for the nomination.”
Before Irene could answer, a young woman beside her jumped in.
“But Irene’s new series has already been recommended internally. If she makes the shortlist, she’ll be one of the strongest contenders for this year’s prize.”
The board members shook their heads.
“The Aurelius Art Prize? That’s nearly impossible. The last person to take it was a genius like Brightness.”
“We’ve invited Brightness to join the Association a dozen times. Never even got a reply. Mysterious as hell. No one even knows whether Brightness is a man or a woman.”
Their voices scraped at my nerves.
I excused myself to the bathroom and slipped away to a quieter corner of the garden.
I took my phone out of my clutch and, with my head down, went back to color-correcting the final piece of The Undercurrent.
I didn’t hear Mario sit down beside me.
He got straight to the point.
“Give The Undercurrent to Irene.”
My fingertip stopped just above the screen.
Something in my chest tightened so hard I could barely breathe.
He, of all people, knew exactly what The Undercurrent meant to me: three years of work, my best shot at the Venice Biennale.
When my inspiration had dried up and I fell into a depression, he’d stayed up with me for three nights straight until I found it again.
I looked up at him, at the man I’d loved so deeply and no longer recognized.
“No.”
Mario’s face darkened immediately.
Just then, my phone buzzed.
An email from the Paris Academy of Fine Arts.
Dear Ms. Rossella Conti,
We are pleased to inform you that your application to the postgraduate studio program has been accepted. Please complete your enrollment before the 30th of this month.
I bit back the smile threatening to break across my face, ignored Mario’s expression, and walked straight out of the ballroom.
The next day, while I was packing the things I’d need for Paris, a news alert popped up on my phone.
“Acclaimed painter Irene Conti’s latest work, The Undercurrent, shortlisted for the Aurelius Art Prize. A rising new talent joins the ranks of Brightness.”
I shot to my feet.
Papers scattered across the floor.
I grabbed a cab and went straight to the Conti estate.
The moment I pushed open my bedroom door, I stopped cold.
My computer had been smashed to pieces.
The motherboard, hard drive, keyboard, everything had been ripped apart. The screen was webbed with cracks. Even the hard drive itself had been bent.
I stood there shaking.
I pulled out my phone and called Melissa, my throat tight.
“Melissa, my computer’s been destroyed. All the source files were on it.”
“Find me the best data recovery team you can. I don’t care what it costs.”
I hung up and got into another cab, heading straight for the Galli Group.
The receptionist tried to stop me. I shook off her hand and walked straight to the top floor.
The assistant and the security guards were still trying to process what was happening when I shoved open the CEO’s office door.
Mario was sitting in his leather chair.
When he saw me, he actually raised an eyebrow.
I didn’t say a word.
I walked over and slapped him across the face as hard as I could.