Leander’s studio smelled of paint and turpentine and something darker. Despair, maybe. Or rage.
Fiammetta stood in the doorway, watching her youngest son attack a canvas with violent brushstrokes. The painting was chaos—reds and blacks, jagged lines, a figure that might have been a woman or might have been a scream made visual.
“Leander. You need to eat.”
“Not hungry.” He didn’t stop painting. Didn’t even look at her.
“You said that yesterday. And the day before. You’re wasting away.”
“Good.” The word was bitter. “Maybe I’ll just fade entirely. Save everyone the trouble.”
“Don’t talk like that—”
“Why not?” Leander threw his brush down, finally turning to face her. “It’s true, isn’t it? I’m the inconvenience. The broken brother. The husband who can’t satisfy his wife.”
“That’s not—”
