The Don's Favorite lover Vanished (by Melissa Z) novel Chapter 14

**TITLE: The Story of a Girl Who Loved a Man Made Entirely of Secrets**
**Chapter 14**

**Chiara’s POV**

Two years had slipped by like sand through fingers, and here I was, standing in my studio in Florence, gazing out at the breathtaking sunset that bathed the Arno River in shades of gold and crimson. The sky was a canvas, painted with colors that seemed to whisper secrets of their own.

This was my sanctuary now—a world untouched by the chaos of my past, a realm of tranquility and elegance, far removed from the blood that had once stained my life.

“Bella, daydreaming again?” The familiar voice of Alessandro broke through my reverie, and I turned to see him entering the studio, a bouquet of pristine white roses in his hands.

He was a rising star in the art scene, his talent undeniable, and our paths had crossed at a gallery opening not long ago. At first, I had hesitated when he asked me out; the thought of stepping into another relationship felt daunting, almost suffocating.

Yet, there was something about him—his handsome features, his graceful demeanor, and perhaps most importantly, the way his world felt as fresh and unblemished as a blank canvas waiting for a masterpiece.

He leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss on my cheek, his eyes sparkling with excitement as he invited me to the opera that very night.

I couldn’t help but smile, the warmth of his presence coaxing me out of my shell. “I’d love to go,” I replied, my heart fluttering with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation.

As he left, I returned to my workbench, eager to dive back into the restoration of a portrait commissioned by a mysterious collector. The woman depicted in the painting bore an uncanny resemblance to me, her gaze hauntingly familiar.

With a scalpel in hand, I meticulously began to scrape away the grime that had dulled her beauty. Each careful stroke revealed more of her vibrant essence, but then, as if the universe had conspired to halt my progress, my hand froze mid-motion.

In the bottom right corner of the canvas, a symbol began to emerge, hidden beneath layers of paint. It was etched in a unique ink, a striking image of a phoenix rising from the ashes.

A chill coursed through my veins, and I couldn’t suppress a whisper that escaped my lips. “A forgery in my style, baited with my own mark…” My voice trembled with an unsettling realization. “Vincenzo, you magnificent bastard. You still know me.”

The door to the studio creaked open, but I didn’t turn around. Instead, I caught a glimpse of a tall, gaunt figure in the reflection of the glass. He wore a long black trench coat, and the winter chill seemed to seep into the room with him.

“A fine restoration,” came a voice, rough and weary, yet tinged with a sickly pride. “Just as I taught you.”

Slowly, I turned, the scalpel still gripped tightly in my hand. There he stood—Vincenzo Russo. Time had not been kind; he appeared so much thinner than I remembered, his cheeks hollowed and his eyes wild, brimming with a madness that sent a shiver down my spine.

“Bella Fiore,” he murmured, stalking towards me with the predatory grace of a wolf closing in on its prey. “Beautiful Flower. A lovely name. But it’s not yours.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I replied flatly, my heart racing.

“Don’t you?” He pointed accusingly at the painting, his voice rising with fervor. “Then how do you explain this? Did you think anyone else in the world would recognize your secret signature?”

I remained silent, my grip on the scalpel tightening, my resolve hardening.

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