Chapter 1 — The Weight of Inheritance

Sienna

The pungent smell of turpentine clung to the air in the Moretti Art Studio, mingling with the faint sweetness of linseed oil. Sienna Moretti’s hands were smeared with cerulean and ochre, the colors streaking her fingers like a second skin. She stared at the unfinished canvas before her, the bold, chaotic strokes mirroring the turmoil churning in her chest.

The room was quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic from the cobblestone street outside and the faint creak of the old wooden floorboards beneath her feet. Sunlight filtered through the frosted windows, casting a muted glow over the cluttered worktables and shelves crammed with jars of pigments, brushes, and half-finished sculptures. Near the corner of the studio, a tall, locked cabinet stood partially in shadow, its silent presence a quiet sentinel among the creative chaos.

This space had always been her sanctuary, a place where she could lose herself in the rhythm of her brushstrokes and feel her father’s guiding presence in every corner. But now, it felt different. The overturned easels and shards of glass from last night’s ransacking had been cleared away, but the memory of it lingered like the metallic tang of blood, impossible to scrub out. The walls seemed to press closer, heavy with the weight of unspoken truths and looming threats.

Her fingers tightened around the paintbrush in her hand, but her knuckles whitened as an unwelcome tremor betrayed her. She hated this feeling—this sense of being watched, hunted.

A sharp knock at the studio door shattered the stillness. Sienna flinched, her brush slipping from her fingers and clattering onto the floor. Her breath hitched, and her pulse quickened, a drumbeat of dread in her ears.

She stared at the door, her heart pounding as a thousand possibilities flashed through her mind, each darker than the last. The men from last night? Had they come back to finish what they started?

“Who is it?” she called, her voice steady but edged with steel, though her trembling hands betrayed her unease.

“It’s me,” came a familiar voice.

The door creaked open, revealing Elena Rossi, her best friend and the owner of La Sirena Café down the street. Relief flooded Sienna’s chest, though the tension in her shoulders refused to fully unwind.

Elena stepped inside, her auburn curls pulled into a loose bun, her bright green eyes scanning the room with a sharpness Sienna had come to rely on. A paper bag dangled from one hand, and a steaming cup of coffee was balanced in the other.

“You’re working yourself to death again,” Elena said, her tone hovering between exasperation and concern. She set the coffee on a nearby table and held up the bag. “I brought you lunch. Knowing you, you probably forgot to eat.”

Sienna managed a weak smile as she took the cup, the warmth seeping into her fingers a small comfort. “Thanks, Elena. I didn’t realize how late it was.”

Elena set the bag on the cluttered worktable and folded her arms, her gaze narrowing. “You’ve been holed up in here for days. What’s going on, Sienna? And don’t tell me it’s just another creative block.”

Sienna hesitated, her gaze dropping to her paint-splattered overalls. She could feel Elena’s eyes on her, sharp and unrelenting, and the weight of the unspoken truth pressed heavier on her chest. “It’s nothing,” she said softly. “Just… trying to keep the studio afloat.”

Elena’s eyes narrowed further, her lips pressing into a tight line. “You’ve been ‘trying to keep the studio afloat’ since your dad passed away, but this feels different. You’re not yourself. And you’re not telling me something.”

Sienna sighed, her grip tightening around the coffee cup. “It’s complicated, Elena.”

“Then uncomplicate it.” Elena’s voice softened, but her gaze remained steady. “I’m your best friend, Sienna. Let me help.”

The words were a lifeline, but Sienna wasn’t sure she could reach for it. The memory of last night surged forward with brutal clarity: the broken easels, the shattered glass, the threatening note scrawled in jagged letters and left on her father’s desk.

Her fingers curled instinctively around the coffee cup as she whispered, “They were here.”

Elena’s expression darkened, her posture stiffening. “Who?”

“I don’t know,” Sienna admitted, her voice trembling. “But they left a message. Something about debts my father owed. They said if I didn’t pay up, they’d come back—and it wouldn’t just be canvases they’d destroy next time.”

Elena’s hand flew to her mouth. “Sienna, why didn’t you call the police?”

“And tell them what? That my dead father apparently owed money to people who think smashing up art studios is a valid business strategy?” Sienna’s laugh was hollow, bitter. She shook her head, her voice dropping. “The police wouldn’t do anything, Elena. You know how it works in this city. People like us don’t get protection.”

Elena began pacing, her brow furrowed. “There has to be another way. What about your father’s journals? Didn’t he keep records of everything? Maybe there’s something in there that explains what’s going on.”

Sienna’s gaze flicked toward the locked cabinet in the corner. Her father’s journals were in there, untouched since his passing. She’d avoided them, afraid of what they might reveal—a truth she wasn’t ready to face.

“I don’t know if I’m ready to go through them,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “It feels… intrusive, like I’m prying into parts of his life he never wanted me to see.”

Elena stopped pacing and placed a hand on Sienna’s shoulder. “I get it. But if there’s even a chance those journals could help you figure out what’s going on, you need to look. This isn’t just about the studio anymore—it’s about your safety.”

Sienna nodded reluctantly, her stomach twisting with unease. She set the coffee down and crossed the room to the cabinet. The key was cold against her fingers as she unlocked the door. The hinges creaked softly as she opened it, revealing a neat stack of leather-bound journals.

She pulled the top one free, the scent of aged paper and ink wafting up as she flipped it open. Her breath caught at the sight of her father’s familiar handwriting.

At first, the entries were mundane—notes about paintings, sketches of ideas, musings on art. But as she turned the pages, the tone shifted. Mentions of “business partners” and “agreements” began to surface, the words vague yet ominous.

Her hand froze on a page near the middle of the journal. Scribbled in the margins were two words that sent a chill down her spine: “De Luca.”

It felt like the name was burning through the page, its ink searing into her skin.

“Elena,” she whispered, holding up the journal. “Look at this.”

Elena leaned over her shoulder, her eyes widening. “The De Luca family? As in the mafia? What the hell was your dad doing getting involved with them?”

“I don’t know,” Sienna murmured, her voice barely audible. “But if he owed them money, that might explain why those men came here. They’re probably trying to collect.”

Elena’s face tightened with worry. “You can’t handle this on your own, Sienna. The De Lucas aren’t just anyone—they run this city. If they’re involved, you need to be smart about your next move.”

Sienna closed the journal, her mind racing. “Smart how? What am I supposed to do, Elena? Walk up to them and ask for a payment plan?”

Elena hesitated, her expression conflicted. “There are rumors—whispers about how the De Lucas operate. If they see potential in someone or something, they don’t always demand money outright. Sometimes they… offer alternatives.”

Sienna frowned. “Alternatives like what?”

“I don’t know,” Elena admitted. “But if there’s even a chance you can negotiate with them, it might be worth a shot.”

Sienna stared at the journal in her hands, the weight of her father’s legacy pressing down on her like never before. The studio had been his dream, his sanctuary—and now it was at the mercy of forces she didn’t understand.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” she said quietly.

Elena squeezed her shoulder. “You’re stronger than you think, Sienna. And you’re not alone. Whatever happens, I’m here for you.”

Sienna blinked back tears, nodding. “Thanks, Elena. I just… I need some time to figure this out.”

Elena nodded, her expression softening. “Take all the time you need. But promise me you’ll be careful. The De Lucas don’t play by anyone’s rules but their own.”

“I will,” Sienna said, though the words felt hollow. Her gaze drifted back to the journal, the name “De Luca” staring back at her like a challenge she couldn’t ignore.

As Elena left the studio, Sienna sank into her father’s old chair, the journal resting on her lap. The sunlight had shifted, casting long shadows across the room. She traced her fingers over the worn leather cover, her mind a storm of questions and fears.

For the first time, the studio didn’t feel like a sanctuary. It felt like a battlefield—and Sienna wasn’t ready to lose.