Bound by blood claimed by love

CHAPTER FOUR: What Was Never Meant To Be Seen

I should be packing.

That thought has been sitting in the back of my mind for the past hour, quietly reminding me of everything I’m supposed to be doing instead of this.

Instead of standing in the middle of my studio, staring at a painting like it might suddenly explain itself.

Instead of feeling like something beneath it is watching me back.

I exhale slowly, rolling my shoulders before stepping closer to the work table.

“This is the last time,” I mutter.

It’s a lie.

I already know it is.

Because something about this painting won’t let me walk away.

Not yet.

I pull on a fresh pair of gloves, the soft snap of latex breaking the silence. The overhead lamp clicks on, flooding the surface with sharp, unforgiving light.

Every flaw becomes visible.

Every imperfection exposed.

That’s how I like it.

That’s how I work.

But today, it feels different.

Heavier.

Intentional.

My gaze settles on the section I started working on yesterday—the red streak that doesn’t belong.

It’s still there.

Still wrong.

Still waiting.

“Let’s see what you’re hiding,” I murmur.

I reach for a cotton swab, dipping it carefully into solvent before bringing it to the surface. My movements are slow, controlled, a habit drilled into me after years of doing this.

No rushing.

No guessing.

Just precision.

The top layer begins to dissolve under the solvent, lifting gradually. At first, nothing changed.

Then…

The color shifts.

Not red.

Darker.

Flatter.

My brows draw together.

“That’s not right.”

Paint doesn’t behave like this.

Not oil. Not pigment. Not anything I’ve worked with before.

This feels… different.

I set the swab aside, switching to a finer tool, a micro-scalpel I rarely need unless something is deliberately layered.

My pulse picks up slightly.

Carefully, I trace along the edge of the discoloration.

The surface responds immediately.

Not like paint.

Like something placed over it.

A cover.

Then I try again, this time applying slightly more pressure.

A thin fragment lifts.

Clean.

Controlled.

Deliberate.

My breath catches.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

This isn’t damage.

It’s concealment.

I lean closer, the world narrowing down to the space beneath my hands.

Slowly, carefully, i continue.

Piece by piece, the false layer begins to separate from the original surface. The process is delicate, almost surgical. One wrong move and I risk destroying whatever’s underneath.

But whoever did this…

They didn’t want it destroyed.

They wanted it hidden.

Which means it was meant to survive.

My heart starts beating faster.

“Why hide something like this?” I whisper.

No answer.

Just the quiet hum of the lamp above me.

And the steady rhythm of my own breathing.

Minutes pass.

Maybe longer.

I don’t keep track.

All I know is that the more I uncover, the clearer it becomes,

This isn’t just a painting.

It’s something else entirely.

Something layered beneath something meant to be seen.

And then…

I see it.

A line.

Not brushwork.

Too sharp.

Too precise.

I freeze.

Slowly, I clear more of the surface around it.

Another line appears.

Then another.

Intersecting.

Structured.

My pulse spikes.

“No…”

I lean in closer, my fingers tightening slightly around the tool.

Those aren’t random marks.

They’re intentional.

Designed.

I clear more.

The shapes begin to form something recognizable.

Not an image.

Not art.

Text.

Faint.

But there.

Letters.

Numbers.

Organized in a way that makes my stomach drop.

“This is a ledger,” I breathe.

The words come out before I can stop them.

Because that’s exactly what it looks like.

Entries.

Structured rows.

Dates.

Amounts.

Names…

I stop.

My hand stills mid-motion.

Names.

Slowly, I lower the tool, switching back to a softer brush to remove the remaining debris with more control.

My chest feels tight now.

Not from fear.

From realization.

Because I know what this means.

This isn’t random.

This isn’t decorative.

This is information.

Hidden.

Protected.

Meant to be invisible unless someone knew where to look.

And I just found it.

“Okay…” I whisper, trying to steady my breathing.

Think.

Don’t react.

Just observe.

I lean closer, scanning the exposed section carefully.

The writing is faint but legible.

A mix of letters and numbers.

Codes.

Transactions.

Amounts that don’t make sense for anything legitimate.

My eyes move faster now, taking in patterns, trying to understand the structure.

It’s organized.

Too organized.

Whoever created this knew exactly what they were doing.

Which means this isn’t just a random record.

It’s part of something bigger.

Something controlled.

Something dangerous.

A chill runs down my spine.

I sit back slowly, staring at the painting.

At the layer beneath it.

At the truth that wasn’t supposed to be seen.

“Ethan needs to see this,” I murmured.

But even as I say it, I don’t move.

Because something else is pulling my attention back.

Something specific.

A section I almost overlooked.

My gaze sharpens.

There…

Near the edge.

A cluster of entries slightly different from the rest.

Less coded.

More… direct.

I lean forward again, my pulse quickening.

Carefully, I clear more of the surface around it.

The text becomes clearer.

Names.

Not initials.

Not symbols.

Actual names.

My throat feels dry.

Why would someone hide names like this… unless they mattered?

Unless they were the most important part?

I swallow slowly, my eyes moving across the entries.

One by one.

Trying to make sense of them.

Trying to understand what I’m looking at.

Then…

I see it.

And everything stops.

My breath.

My thoughts.

The room itself.

Because one name doesn’t belong with the others.

It stands out.

Not because it’s written differently.

But because I recognize it.

Immediately.

Clearly.

Like it’s been waiting for me.

My lips part slightly.

“…No.”

The word barely makes a sound.

But it feels loud in my head.

Too loud.

I stare at it.

Hoping I’m wrong.

Hoping I misread it.

But I didn’t.

Because the name is unmistakable.

Dante Moretti.

My pulse slams against my ribs.

Hard.

Fast.

Uncontrolled.

For a second, I don’t move.

I just sit there, staring at it like it might disappear if I look away.

Like it might rewrite itself into something less dangerous.

But it doesn’t.

It stays exactly where it is.

Cold.

Clear.

Real.

“Why are you here?” I whisper.

The question isn’t logical.

Of course he’s here.

Ethan already said the collection might belong to him.

But this…

This is different.

This isn’t ownership.

This is involvement.

Connection.

Participation.

My mind starts racing now, pulling everything together at once.

The hidden ledger.

The missing records.

The painting from my past.

The invitation.

Milan.

Moretti.

It all fits.

Too well.

Too clean.

And I don’t like it.

Not even a little.

I push back from the table abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor.

“No,” I say under my breath, shaking my head slightly.

This changes things.

This changes everything.

Because now it’s not just a possibility.

It’s real.

He’s connected.

To this.

To whatever this is.

To whatever I just uncovered.

And if this is connected to my parents…

My chest tightens sharply.

I didn't finish that thought.

I don’t want to.

Not yet.

Because once I do, there’s no going back.

I run a hand through my hair, pacing once across the room before stopping again.

“Think,” I whisper.

Don’t jump to conclusions.

Don’t assume.

But I already know one thing.

This isn’t a coincidence.

And whatever I just found…

It’s bigger than I expected.

A lot bigger.

My gaze shifts back to the painting.

To the name still visible beneath the surface.

To the truth I just uncovered.

And for the first time since this started…

I feel it.

Not curiosity.

Not determination.

Something else.

Something sharper.

More dangerous.

I inhale slowly.

Then exhale.

“…What did I just walk into?”