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Red Velvet
Eva woke before dawn.
The kind of waking where the body jerks before the mind catches up, as though she had been yanked out of a dream she wasn't meant to leave. For a moment she thought she heard her brother's voice whispering her name, but when she sat up, the only sound was the muted hum of Roman traffic far below her window.
Her apartment was still half-dark, the lapis vial glowing faintly on her desk like a curse. She rubbed her eyes and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, but her gaze snagged on the sketchbook she had abandoned hours earlier.
Luca's face stared back at her from the page.
She pressed her lips together until they hurt. What am I doing? She was supposed to be tracking down clues about her brother, not sketching the man who made her pulse stumble like a drunk in an alleyway. She had sworn—sworn—never to trust a Moretti, not after the whispers she'd unearthed about their dealings.
Yet she kept thinking of the way Luca had looked at her. Not like prey. Not like a pawn. More like…
She slammed the sketchbook shut and stood abruptly. She needed clarity, and clarity meant work.
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The Commission
By midmorning, Eva was in her studio, easel positioned beneath the north-facing window, natural light spilling across the canvas. The Morettis hadn't given her much time. The painting they wanted forged—a minor Renaissance Madonna, delicate as lace and twice as fragile—was to be delivered in less than two weeks.
Normally she would have relished the challenge: the layering of pigments, the painstaking recreation of brushstrokes, the satisfaction of deception so perfect it could hang in a museum undetected for centuries.
But this time was different.
This time she had to work with the knowledge that every detail she painted was also a breadcrumb—one leading to whatever secret the Morettis thought was hidden in the original.
She reached for her glass palette and began mixing the pigments. Ultramarine, lead-tin yellow, vermilion—ingredients that smelled faintly of minerals and dust, of time itself. Her brush touched canvas, steady at first, but her mind was not.
Because she wasn't alone.
She could feel him, even before he spoke.
"You shade too heavy around the eyes," Luca said, leaning against her doorframe.
Eva's hand jerked, nearly smudging the Madonna's face. "Do you ever knock?" she snapped.
His smirk was infuriatingly casual. "Do you ever relax?"
"I relax just fine when mobsters aren't sneaking into my studio."
"You left the lock easy to pick. That's practically an invitation."
"Or a test," she shot back, turning to face him fully. "And congratulations—you failed. You think I don't notice when you slip in unannounced? When you hover like a shadow? Do you even realize how obvious you are?"
Something flickered in his eyes, just for a heartbeat. Vulnerability? No. More like warning. "And you think you're subtle? Sitting here sketching me at midnight like I'm some… inspiration?"
Her chest went tight. "You—"
"How else would I know?" He tilted his head, gaze landing with pinpoint accuracy on the sketchbook she had tried to bury under a stack of papers.
Heat flared in her face. "Stay out of my things."
"Then don't draw me," he said softly.
The quiet between them was worse than the barbs. His presence filled the room like a second heartbeat, steady, insistent, impossible to ignore.
Finally, Eva turned back to the canvas, forcing her strokes calm. "What do you want, Luca?"
"To make sure you survive this."
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The Warning
She paused, brush hovering midair. "What do you mean?"
He stepped closer, voice dropping. "My family doesn't commission forgeries for pleasure. That painting—whatever they believe it hides—it's dangerous. If you hand it over without knowing the truth, you'll end up like your brother."
Her brush clattered against the palette. She whipped around. "What do you know about my brother?"
"Nothing concrete." His jaw clenched. "But whispers say he crossed paths with the Morettis before he disappeared."
Cold fury surged through her. "And you conveniently forgot to mention this until now?"
"I'm telling you because I don't want you blindsided. You think I enjoy feeding you scraps? You think I want you tangled in this mess?"
She stepped closer, stabbing her finger at his chest. "Then why don't you walk away? Tell your precious famiglia you won't play watchdog anymore."
His hand caught her wrist—not roughly, but firmly enough to halt her. His voice was low, dangerous. "Because walking away gets people killed. You, for example."
For a long, taut second they stared at each other, neither willing to look away. Eva's pulse thundered in her throat.
It was Luca who released her first, exhaling like he'd been holding back a storm. "Finish the painting. But hide your own code inside it. Something only you'll recognize. A failsafe."
Her breath caught. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because," he said, backing toward the door, "I'm not sure how long I can protect you."
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The Shadow Photographer
That evening, Eva packed away her brushes and tried to shake off the conversation. But unease clung to her like smoke.
She decided to walk. Rome was safer in the early evening, when the streets filled with tourists and the dying sun bathed everything in gold. She wandered past cafés spilling music, past fountains where coins glittered beneath the water.
And then she felt it.
That prickling awareness, like someone's lens trained on her back.
She spun, scanning the crowd. Nothing. Just strangers laughing, couples holding hands, vendors selling roses. But when she turned forward again, a man brushed past her, camera dangling casually from his neck. For an instant, the lens gleamed red.
Her stomach dropped. Surveillance. Again.
She picked up her pace, weaving through the crowd, heart pounding. She ducked into a narrow alley, pressed herself against the wall, and waited.
The man passed by the alley entrance without hesitation, but not before raising the camera one last time. The click of the shutter was as sharp as a gunshot.
Eva's breath came fast, shallow. She didn't wait—she bolted in the opposite direction, nearly colliding with a Vespa.
By the time she reached her apartment, sweat slicked her palms. She locked the door, pulled the curtains, and collapsed against the wall.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number.
THE CAMERA SEES MORE THAN YOU THINK.
Eva's hand trembled as she dropped the phone. She wasn't just being watched. She was being studied.
And for the first time, she wondered if Luca's warning hadn't come too late.
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The Confession
Hours later, a knock rattled her door.
Her heart slammed—was it the man with the camera? The Morettis?
"Eva, it's me," came Luca's voice.
Relief and fury warred inside her. She yanked the door open. "Are you insane? Do you know what kind of attention you're bringing here?"
He brushed past her, scanning the apartment like a guard dog. "You were followed tonight."
"You think I didn't notice?" she snapped. "Red lens. Camera. Message on my phone. Whoever it is, they know everything."
His expression hardened. "Then we move fast. Finish the forgery in three days. After that, I'll get you out of Rome."
She folded her arms. "You think I'll just run? Like my brother?"
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Silence.
Then Luca spoke, voice rawer than she'd ever heard. "My brother's dead too. Different circumstances, same ghosts. That's why I can't watch you get swallowed."
Her breath caught. She had never imagined him carrying grief. But now, looking at him, she saw it—the shadow he wore behind the smirk, the unspoken ache in his eyes.
She whispered, "You're still one of them."
"Maybe," he admitted. "But every day I'm less sure where I belong."
And for the first time, Eva realized she wasn't the only one caught in the frame of someone else's design.
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