Wicked Fame: A mafia stalker romance (Wicked Men Book 2)

Gabriele doesn’t follow me. Not that afternoon, anyway.

I inch along the crowded street on my block heels, peeking inside various shops as I make my way toward The Cinnamon & Fig, my regular brunch spot. I always get the Buddha bowl there. It’s to die for.

I used to go there with Ella all the time but our schedules don’t line up anymore. I have to spend a lot of time at my studio and she only has classes in the evening. After class, she hangs out with my brother Ethan, who is also her boyfriend. I don’t want to cut into their time.

But more than that, I don’t feel like socializing with anyone anymore. People’s words get stuck in the black net of static running through my brain at all times. My whole life is wrapped up around art right now. I obsess over space, distance, colors, and not being able to paint even when I’m outside my studio. It’s gotten to the point where I tune out conversations altogether because I can’t focus on anything else. It’s painful when people feel ignored by me.

So I spare them that experience by avoiding them.

I trudge onward, taking notice of people’s expressions as their bodies pass me as if ships lost at sea. Old habits are impossible to break, so I can’t keep myself from taking pictures of some of the sights I see on my phone. From a certain angle, the bare branches of the trees look like two people kissing.

The coldness numbs my brain and quietens it for a second. I spin my head in time to catch the blur of vivid shades in the scenery behind me.

Bright yellow cabs.

Prussian window frames.

Red lanterns hanging outside a Chinese restaurant.

An emotion, fleeting yet familiar, caresses my soul.

I find bliss in colors, in wielding them with a brush, in letting them illustrate the unseen corners of my soul.

Sometimes, art is magic. It turns me beautiful, invincible, and magnificent with its power.

Other times, it erases the empty holes in my chest.

Every day, it demands all my devotion and energy like a starved boyfriend.

But art is a selfish lover because it never leaves me satisfied. It never gives me enough.

Before I know it, I’m crashing back down to reality; powerless, invisible, and scared. Craving a high no drug can buy me. Chasing it again with a paintbrush, knowing fully well it’ll never be mine.

Knowing that even if it were mine, nothing would change.

So why does it feel like my entire life would be worth something if I only had that one moment of glory?

A text from Ella pings into my inbox, cutting past the sting of disappointment spreading in my nerves.

My throat constricts at the name on the screen.

Ella: Hey, let’s meet up tomorrow. I found this great dinner spot. You’re free after six, right?

Me: I have some school stuff to do tomorrow. 

Ella: What about Saturday?

Me: I’ll check my schedule and let you know. 

That’s just code for: I’m going to ghost you until you forget about this text conversation. It’s not as though I have an actual packed schedule or don’t know what I have going on every day of the week.

Ella: Are you okay?

Me: Yeah, this thesis project is really taking up all my time. 

Ella: Let me know if I can help you. 

Me: Sure. Hope you’re doing well. 

Ella: It has been ages since we talked. Both Ethan and I miss you.

Ethan and I? They’re guilting me as a unit now after all the trouble I went through to set them up? Well, I did it because I wanted them to be happy. They were both so lonely before. Ella’s a socially awkward bookworm and Ethan is so cold and ruthless, even Mom is afraid of crossing paths with him.

I type out the most insincere cliché of all time.

Me: I miss you too. 

But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m still going to avoid her until I complete my paintings.

Ella: You can talk to me about anything. You know that, right? I’ll listen to you anytime. And if I can help you in any way with your art, I’d love to. 

Guilt snags in the soft flesh of my heart. Ella and I used to be like sisters. She was always there for me. I know she loves me. That’s why I don’t want to burden her with my problems. She’ll try to help because she can’t see me suffer. She’ll try to fix me. But this is a battle I must fight for myself.

I was the one who chose to become an artist. I was the one who chose to pursue fame and success. I can’t expect other people to put up with the fallout from my dreams.

Me: Don’t worry about it. I’ve made some new friends in my art program. We discuss art stuff with each other. 

Okay, that was low, even for me. Ella is shy and has no other friends. She would probably feel excluded by that statement. She might assume I don’t need friends anymore. But what else can I do? I lack the emotional stamina to face someone I love and pretend to be happy when I’m bleeding inside. Ella will see through that act in a minute.

Being an artist wasn’t the path that my family expected me to follow but I chose it because I was passionate. So the people around me expect me to be happy all the time. To show how grateful and elated I am to be able to draw when more often than not, pursuing my dream feels like sliding down the slope into the valley of death. Yet, I can’t stop.

Ella’s next message plucks me out of my festering guilt.

Ella: That’s great that you’ve made friends who love art as much as you do. See you on Saturday (hopefully). 

Moisture gathers in droplets at the corners of my eyes. I simply don’t deserve a friend like Ella. I don’t deserve anything, the way I am now. Not even success.

Drained by the text exchange, I stuff my phone back into the pocket of my coat, deciding it’s better to not reply rather than say something else that might inadvertently hurt Ella.

Sometimes, I think I might be worse than Antonio. At least he’s sincere, honest, and has his act together.

Funny that he’s the one in the mafia.