Daphne graduated from NYU in May. Bachelor of Fine Art. Her student exhibitions have been included, but I move past them. The painting I saw wasn’t a student piece. She was still finding herself when she was in college. Her first paintings of the ocean happened toward the end, and they were quick studies.
Current residence is above the Motif Gallery. One-bedroom apartment.
By the alley? Why would a Morelli want to live in such a shitty place? It’s barely clean. Definitely not secure. The Morellis run billion-dollar businesses. Their daughter doesn’t need to set foot in a place like the Motif Gallery.
More photos of her. College photos, mainly. Daphne in the studio, with her hair pulled up on top of her head, laughing as she paints. Daphne accepting an award at an end-of-school banquet, grinning. But it’s the last photo that freezes my hand in place and sends blood rushing to my cock.
Daphne, standing alone outside a shop somewhere in the city. A paparazzi photo. Someone was going to try and make money off the Morellis and lost his nerve. The photo isn’t particularly titillating. Not worth the cost of provoking the Morelli institution. The photographer’s name is printed below the photo, along with a notation—sold to Morelli Holdings. Unpublished.
It’s the expression on her face that arrests my attention.
My painter comes from a rich family, but her expression is filled with longing. She is looking past whatever is in that shop window. I doubt she sees it at all. In the cool shadow of the building, she is in waiting. Waiting for the sun to touch her face. Waiting to be lit up with possibility. Longing for it.
I want to create that expression on her face the way she puts the living ocean on canvas. I want to feel it in her body. Watch it pour out of her and become something else.
Art.
Fierce desire bolts through me, spine to toes, concentrating in my cock. Fuck. Make it specific. Put it in terms that can be controlled.
I want to watch emotions scrawl themselves across her face, her eyes, her mouth. I want to witness the transfer of that emotion from body to canvas. I want to watch it become. Right now, Daphne Morelli’s tears and thoughts and feelings are a black box. I’ve seen her. I’ve felt the results. Ocean spray on my face. Salt on my tongue. Between the longing in her eyes and the first stroke of the brush is a void. A veiled mystery. I want it uncovered.
Of course, there is an antecedent to all this—her family. My man has included information about them, too. A series of press photos taken at a gala last year.
There are her parents. Bryant and Sarah. Bryant has the dark-haired look about him, those same dark eyes, and his smile is more of a glare. Handsome and fit, despite being in his sixties. His wife is a redhead. Petite. Distant. Her mind is elsewhere while the cameras flash. She stands close to his side. I wonder if she does that when no one’s watching.
The next photo is a group shot. Lucian Morelli. Eva Morelli. Sophia Morelli. Lisbetta Morelli. A short paragraph underneath sketches out the details. Lucian Morelli, eldest son. CEO at Morelli Holdings. Recently replaced Bryant Morelli at the helm. Eva Morelli, second eldest. Lives in Manhattan. Sophia Morelli. Second daughter, sixth child. Lisbetta Morelli. Youngest child. Boarding school.
There she is—in the next set of photos. Two of them. Daphne laughs at a man dressed all in black—black tux, black shirt. Custom, from the look of the tailoring. He’s tall, lean, black-brown hair that matches hers.
He’s touching her. Jealousy surges. His hand on her back. From the angle of his arm, his palm is low on her shoulders, and her elbow brushes his side as she laughs. He wears an amused smile, captured as he speaks to her. In the next frame, they both look out at the cameras. Her eyes are bright, as if they’d shared a private joke.
They seem close. My jealousy is causing a physical reaction now, one I don’t like, and I take several breaths and scroll to find out who this motherfucker is.
Leo Morelli. Second son, third child. Owns a subsidiary of Morelli Holdings in Manhattan. Real estate. “Beast of Bishop’s Landing.” More detail upon request.
Her brother.
The jealousy subsides, but it’s replaced with something else. Awareness. Of this brother, yes, but all of them. They’re distinct faces now. Except—
I scroll back up. Daphne has seven siblings in total. Four brothers, three sisters. Two of her brothers weren’t at the gala, but other photos have been included.
Tiernan Morelli. Third son. Works for Bryant Morelli.
The photo of him is grainy. It shows a distinctive scar on his face.
Carter Morelli. Fourth son. Graduated from Oxford. Lives overseas.
So the youngest child at boarding school was flown home for this event, but not Carter. There is a dynamic in play. I would guess, from the photos, that one of the older brothers is at the center of it. Lucian, perhaps. Or—Leo, from the way Daphne laughed at him. It’s a single frame but it’s genuine.
My phone buzzes on the desk where I’ve abandoned it. My thumb is already above the reject button when the name registers. Will. My younger brother. The photo of Daphne with her brother, laughing at him, happy with him, lands at the center of my screen.
“Yeah?”
“Hi to you too, Emerson.” Will’s going somewhere. He’s always going somewhere. There’s birdsong in the background. Central Park, maybe, on his way to somewhere else. Winter birds. Probably the building where he headquarters his tech startup. “Did Sin call you?”
“I didn’t answer.”
“Asshole.”
“Did you want something?”
“No, but Sin does.” A laugh, punctuated with more birdsong. “He wants us to get together. He wants us to be one big, happy family. I told him the odds weren’t great, given everything.”
Everything encompasses our shitshow of a childhood, which is kept in its own box, out of sight, out of mind. The memories fight against their frames. I pull up the app on my desktop that shows me the security system for the house. All the doors are locked. Two deep breaths to push away the sensation of a threat.
“That ship has sailed,” I tell Will.
“Sin said something about new beginnings.” He sounds thoughtful. “I think he might be fucking someone new.”
“He’s always fucking someone new.” I scroll down past the gala photos to a larger collection of Daphne herself. Anything he could find, plus more details from her life. She won a fellowship at NYU. Graduated with honors. Did well at the private Catholic prep school she attended. It’s not enough. It’s all the information I requested and then some, and it’s still not enough.
No one captivates me in this way. People are always trying to talk to me about new, emerging artists, and for the most part I’m not interested. Nora is an exception. I made my money on the masters throughout history, and built my collection from them, too. New is exciting for small minds. I’m in the business of depth. I’m in the business of excellence.
Something in Daphne’s painting spoke of both.
And the woman herself—
“Are you listening to me?” Will asks.
“No.”
“Sin said he’s coming to New York.”
I don’t like that. No wonder Will didn’t stop to harass me about not listening to his bullshit. This is a call with a purpose.
“Why?”
Will huffs. “Why do you think?”