Page 16 of Depraved Royals

“Whatever.” Pip wraps brown paper around a canvas, securing it with string. “But I think you’re fooling yourself. Would it be so bad if you and Kal got together? Might give your families something to bond over.”

I sigh.

Pip is a trust-fund baby from England, and her father is a minor aristocrat. She lives in New York because she wants to, and her family pays her bills while she interns and applies to study at prestigious international schools. But although she’s rich, she’s not also Bratva. She does not know what a mafia feud involves, no matter how many times I explain it to her.

I decide to change the subject,

“Let’s get this done before the courier arrives,” I say, loading several canvases onto a handcart. “These should have been finished and in place at The Refinery two days ago.”

“Are you going to be there early tonight?” Pippa asks.

“I’m gonna walk down there as soon as these last pieces are in place,” I say. “It’s a beautiful day, and the fresh air will do me good.”

“Walk?” Pippa asks. “Who walks somewhere voluntarily?”

I smile at her. “Someone who wants to feel free, even if it’s only for a short while.”

* * *

The afternoon sunshine casts long shadows as I walk through the park. There’s a bite to the air - it is October, after all - but my bouclé coat and scarf keep the chill from creeping down my neck.

It feelssogood to be alone.

The last few weeks have been tough for all of us.

My father would not be turned, and despite my Mama and sister’s efforts, he kept me under tight control. I haven’t been able to do much except hang out with Pippa and work on my art, so the exhibition is now almost twice the size I expected.

My muse went on a journey, too. My canvases are usually bright, with abstract slices of yellows and whites in thick, textured oil paint. I often add gold leaf, diamond powder, and natural elements, like leaves and sand, to bring together both the earthy realness of nature and the hedonistic desires of humanity.

But lately, I’m choosing darker colors. Swathes of purple bruise the canvas, contrasting with the light but complimenting it too. I’m drawn to materials I never used before - glass, flint, thorns. Things that have to be handled with care.

Some pieces aren’t going on display because they feel too personal. I finished one canvas only yesterday, a deep indigo background spliced with silvery slicks of paint. I spent hours gluing tiny pieces of broken mirror to it, arranging them in lines and swirls. The effect is disconcerting - all the viewer can see is their reflection thousands of times, and if the light hits it a certain way, it creates the occasional blinding flash.

I give little conscious thought to my art. It’s an expression of my inner landscape, and too close an examination might frighten away my inspiration. It’s skittish, like a baby deer.

But some work is notjustart. It’s therapy.

My thoughts tail off as I arrive at the gallery. The Refinery is closed to the public, but I know the combination to the door.

I let myself in and head upstairs. My footsteps echo as I walk through the exhibition hall.

I’m pleased that the movers have set up the space to my specification. I lay my canvases out so that they tell a story. They move from sunny to darker and more ominous as I walk by.

Is this the first sign of some impending nervous breakdown? If so, it’s incredibly pretentious.

A console in the second-floor office controls the sound and lighting. I head inside, set the system to run through a playlist of eighties pop classics, and tinker with the light settings, trying out different effects. I wonder if I can work out how to change the color of the bulbs as we reach the end of the display.

* * *

I’ve been here a while, concentrating, my tongue sticking out at the corner of my mouth. It’s a simple enough interface, but bulb nine insists on being pink…

The music scrambles then cuts out. I click on the desktop player, trying to get it started again.

Then I notice a smell. I breathe in deeply, and this time I get a lungful of something acrid and toxic. I cough violently and jump up from my seat.

Burning.

Smoke is creeping under the closed door. This little room will become a gas chamber if I don’t get out of here. I touch the door with my hand to see if it’s hot.