Page 40 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

It had sat empty for years. Maybe it had been waiting for her.

"You made the rain night feel cold," I said, watching the painting. "But that kid doesn't look scared at all."

On the canvas, the mother held her little girl. Outside the window there were no details, just slate blue against warm gold—rain-dark night and the safety of inside.

Cool tones took most of the space, but that small pocket of warmth hooked your eye and didn't let go.

"Because she knew her mother wouldn't let go," Elena said.

I looked at the child's small hand clutching her mother's clothes. "I figure that painting will make her feel like her mother is still there, even for a second."

I had plenty of art in the manor. Some pieces had pedigree, and some had price tags that could keep guests talking all night. None of them felt as real as what sat in front of me.

Elena's work might've lacked a name, but it didn't lack value. She was a painter—an actual one. Not the useless daughter Seamus called her. Not the attention-hungry little show-off Isabella had described.

Elena looked back at me, surprised.

"I didn't think you'd get it."

"I don't get painting."

"But you got what she wanted to leave behind."

I didn't answer. My mother had been gone for years, and I couldn't even remember the exact warmth of her last hug. But that canvas dragged me back to being small, when she'd held me close during a storm and made the thunder feel far away.

If someone had left me a painting like that, I would've paid any price to own it.

"You did good," I said.

Elena's mouth curved instantly.

Most of the time, she made herself smaller. When she painted, she didn't. She stood straight, laid down strokes without hesitation, the brush like it belonged to her body.

My gaze dropped to a sketchbook on the table. "Can I look?"

She froze.

Before, I wouldn't have asked. Anything inside my house, I'd assumed I had the right to see.

"You can," she said softly.

Inside were people everywhere—an old man selling flowers on a street corner, a couple fighting by a café window, and a series of nude studies.

When I flipped to the third nude, my finger stopped. A man sat there, naked, and the space between his legs was drawn with sharp, explicit clarity.

"Who is this?"

Elena leaned in, calm. "A figure model."

"How many times did you draw them?"

"That was basic training."

"I asked how many."

She glanced at me. "I don't remember."

"You don't remember how many times you stared at naked men?"