Chapter 51 51
- Leander’s studio smelled of paint and turpentine and something darker. Despair, maybe. Or rage.
- Fiammetta stood in the doorway, watching her youngest son attack a canvas with violent brushstrokes. The painting was chaos—reds and blacks, jagged lines, a figure that might have been a woman or might have been a scream made visual.
- “Leander. You need to eat.”