The rain outside Brooks and Brush had settled into a steady, rhythmic drumbeat against the glass, but inside the small studio, the air felt thin and charged, as though an electrical storm had just broken indoors.

Three weeks later, the front window of Brooks and Brush had been entirely replaced with thick, double-paned safety glass that gleamed under the warm afternoon sun. The hardwood floors had been sanded and polished, erasing every trace of mud, gunpowder, and blood.

The proposed Moretti Grand Hotel project had been officially canceled by the city council following the federal seizure of Moretti Development’s assets. In its place, the entire block had been designated a historical cultural district, funded in part by a mysterious anonymous philanthropic trust managed by a newly restructured legal firm—one now entirely independent of syndicates and mob ties.

Inside the studio, the bell above the door chimed softly as Mrs. Henderson stepped inside, holding a freshly framed portrait of her orange cat.

“ Oh, Elena, honey!” Mrs. Henderson beamed, setting the portrait on the front desk. “The framing is exquisite! You’ve truly outdone yourself.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Henderson,” Elena smiled, wiping her hands on a clean apron. “It was a labor of love. Mr. Whiskers deserves nothing less.”

As the elderly customer ambled out, chatting happily about the fine autumn weather, the back door connecting the studio to the private sitting room clicked open.

Luca Moretti stepped through. He wasn't wearing a charcoal suit today. Instead, he wore a simple dark blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing forearms corded with muscle and faint, old scars. In his hands, he carried two steaming ceramic mugs of black coffee.

He walked over to the center of the studio, where the large easel stood bathed in golden afternoon light.

The portrait of Isabella Moretti was entirely complete.

Her dark hair swept behind one ear. Her quiet, knowing smile. Her warm brown eyes containing equal amounts of amusement and sadness.

And her hands—expertly painted by Elena with delicate, lifelike precision—rested gently on her lap, holding a single, unlit paintbrush.

Luca stopped three feet from the canvas. He didn't say a word for a long moment, simply gazing at the face he had mourned for nearly three decades.

“She looks like she’s about to scold us for making a mess of the floor,” Luca finally said, a faint, genuine smile touching the corners of his lips.

Elena walked over, accepting the mug of coffee he offered. Their fingers brushed briefly, sending a warm, familiar jolt through her veins.

“She looks like a woman who knew she was loved,” Elena corrected gently, taking a sip of the hot coffee. “That’s what my grandfather’s portraits always did. They proved someone was here.”

Luca turned his dark eyes toward her, the haunting shadows of the past finally replaced by a quiet, steady peace. “And you? Do you feel like you’re still here, Ms. Brooks? Or are you ready to sell the building to a real estate developer with better manners?”

Elena laughed, leaning her shoulder against his arm. “Only if the developer promises to fix the roof before winter and brings his own coffee.”

Luca set his mug down on the edge of the desk, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. He handed it to her.

Elena unfolded it with a curious frown. It wasn't a business contract or a bank foreclosure notice.

It was a sketch—drawn in firm, confident charcoal lines just that morning while she was downstairs mixing paints. It showed Elena standing by her easel, her hair half-pinned back, her expression one of fierce, stubborn creativity, with a smudge of cobalt blue paint glowing brightly on her cheek.

At the bottom of the sketch, in neat, elegant handwriting: To Elena. Proof you were here first.

Elena looked up, her heart full, her breath catching in her throat as Luca stepped closer, his hand reaching out to gently brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear.