Chapter 3 - The Portrait in the Gallery
The interior of the Moretti estate was less a home and more a museum of quiet intimidation. High vaulted ceilings, dark oak paneling, and floors of polished black marble that reflected the dim, recessed lighting. There were no family photos on the walls, no clutter of everyday life, just solemn oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors who looked down with severe, judgment-filled eyes.
A housekeeper in a crisp black-and-white uniform, introduced as Mrs. Gable, showed me to a guest suite on the second floor. It was larger than my entire apartment—a sprawling room with a king-sized bed draped in heavy velvet, a fireplace of carved white marble, and French doors leading out onto a private balcony overlooking the rain-washed city.
"Mr. Moretti is in his study," Mrs. Gable said politely, though her eyes scanned me with a cool, assessing distance that made it clear I didn't belong here. "A change of clothes has been laid out for you in the closet. Dinner will be served at eight."
"I'm not hungry," I said, clutching my jacket around myself.
"Mr. Moretti expects his guests at the table," she replied, her tone leaving no room for argument. The door clicked shut behind her.
Left alone, the walls seemed to close in. I paced the length of the room, my mind spinning. The contract sat on the mahogany desk by the window, glowing faintly under the lamp light. Six months. Six months of playing a role, of living in a gilded cage with a man who commanded an army and looked like he buried secrets in his backyard.
Restless and suffocating under the weight of my own thoughts, I pulled the heavy oak door open and stepped out into the hallway.
The corridor was silent, carpeted in thick Persian runners that muffled my footsteps. I wandered past rows of locked doors and towering bookcases until I reached the end of the hall, where a grand, curved staircase descended into a private gallery wing.
Drawn by a strange, inexplicable pull, I walked down the steps.
The gallery was darker than the rest of the house, illuminated only by soft track lighting focused on the canvases lining the walls. Most of them were landscapes or abstract pieces of dark, moody expressionism. But as I walked further in, the paintings changed.
They were portraits.
I stopped in front of one depicting a severe-looking older man with the same storm-gray eyes as Adrian, standing in front of the very same mansion. A plaque beneath read: Dante Moretti, 1954–2018.
Beside it hung another portrait of a woman with dark hair and a heartbreaking, melancholic smile. Elena Moretti.
And then, tucked into a recessed alcove at the far end of the gallery, half-hidden in shadow, hung a smaller, much older painting. It looked out of place—not because of its style, but because of its subject.
I stepped closer, my breath catching in my throat.
It was a painting of a young woman, no older than twenty, sitting on a stone bench in a Mediterranean garden. She had wild, dark curls, a brilliant, defiant smile, and eyes that were strikingly, unmistakably familiar.
They weren't gray. They were a vivid, piercing amber.
And beneath the portrait, engraved on a small brass plaque, was a name that made my blood run instantly cold:
Clara Bellamy, 1985–2009.
My knees gave out. I stumbled backward, my hand hitting the cold marble wall.
Bellamy.
My mother’s maiden name. My mother, who had died when I was ten, leaving behind a box of faded photographs and a mountain of debt I spent my twenties trying to untangle. My mother, who had always told me we had no family left, that we were completely alone in the world.
"I see you found her."
Adrian’s voice came from the shadows behind me, soft, heavy, and carrying a sorrow so profound it chilled me to the bone.
I spun around, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Adrian stood at the entrance of the alcove, his suit jacket removed, his white sleeves rolled up to his forearms, looking not like a syndicate boss, but like a man haunted by ghosts.
"Who is she?" I choked out, my voice trembling as I pointed a shaking finger at the canvas. "Why is my mother’s name on that wall?"
Adrian walked slowly toward me, stopping just a few feet away. In the dim light, his eyes were devastatingly sad.
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"She wasn't just your mother’s name, Mara," Adrian said quietly. "Clara Bellamy was my first love. And the reason you were never a stranger to me tonight."
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