The Ruined Canvases

"I've signed them, Dante." The divorce papers caught on the edge of Dante's ledger. I pushed again, but my shaking hand sent the amber prescription bottle rolling after them. The pills clicked against the glass. He kept reading. His jaw tightened once. "Don't be childish, Aria." "Look at the bottle. Then read this." I pulled the folded lab report from my pocket. The lab had found a low-dose neurotoxin in my heart medication. With every dose, the tremor got worse. I could no longer keep a loaded brush against a canvas. Below the toxin's name was another warning: chronic exposure could leave permanent nerve damage. The pills Dante insisted would steady my heart were taking my hands from me one dose at a time. "Valeria has been poisoning me." Dante looked up at last. It was the same narrow stare he used across a negotiation table. "You're accusing my Consigliere over a tantrum?" "Look at my hands." I held them over the desk. The paper underneath rustled. "I can't hold a brush, Dante. I can't paint." He rose in front of the panoramic windows and smoothed his bespoke jacket where my fingers had caught the sleeve. "You're wrinkling my suit." He moved out of reach. "I don't have time for this. Valeria manages the household because you can't." The door clicked open without a knock. Valeria came in carrying his espresso, her dark hair pinned into its usual hard knot. She crossed the room without looking at me. "Don Rossi, Milan calls in five minutes." She set the porcelain cup beside his ledger. Her fingertips rested on his arm as she drew a file from under her other elbow. "Is Mrs. Rossi unwell again? Dr. Albin notes that she becomes paranoid when she feels neglected. I brought the latest report." She laid Dr. Albin's report over mine. Dante reached for hers. "There. It's handled." He nodded to the two guards at the door. "Take my wife back to her wing. She needs rest." "No." My heel caught against the rug when I backed away from them. "Dante, read my report." He glanced at Valeria. The guards moved in. "Dante, please. I just want you to listen." "Enough. Go. Now." The guards closed their hands around my arms and turned me toward the door of my own husband's office. My face burned. Neither man met my eyes. Their practiced grip was careful, almost gentle, the one they used on an unwanted guest. Behind me, Dante said, "Send her the white lilies. Maybe they'll calm her down." I stopped walking. White lilies. Less than a minute later, one of Dante's men met us in the marble hall with a crystal vase full of white blossoms. My throat prickled before he reached me. "A gift from the Don," the man said, offering them to me. The scent coated the back of my mouth. My lungs tightened. Three years earlier, the same flowers had nearly sent me into anaphylaxis at an event. Dante called it a mild cold. Valeria watched the doctor give me an injection. Valeria's signature was on the follow-up instructions. Beneath the warning about airway closure, **white lilies** was printed in bold. She had read it. I stepped around the vase. The guard moved with me, still holding it out. At the incinerator chute, I pulled open the small steel door used for sensitive documents. The guard coughed behind me. "Mrs. Rossi?" I took the heavy vase from him and tipped in the flowers, water, and crystal. The crash came from several floors below. The guard stared at the open chute. I shut the steel door and went to my studio. Beneath a dusty drop cloth, three small unmarked bottles waited where paints and brushes should have been. Together, the odorless solvents would make enough non-toxic smoke to trigger every fire alarm in the penthouse. I had tested the proportions for weeks. Too little would do nothing. Too much could hurt the staff I needed moving in the confusion. I measured for smoke and alarms, with no real fire for Dante to contain. I lined up the three bottles and reached for the first cap.