Chapter 6 - The Portrait Beside the Bar
The portrait was an exquisite, hand-painted oil canvas, encased in a heavy, Victorian-style carved gold frame. The restaurant’s warm golden spotlights shone directly down onto it, highlighting every rich brushstroke and delicate detail.
It depicted a young woman in her early twenties, seated gracefully on a dark velvet chair. She was wearing an elegant, form-fitting black silk dress that draped over her shoulders. Her dark brown hair was styled in a soft, romantic updo, with tiny, delicate strands framing her face—almost identical to the messy bun Elina wore for her shift tonight.
Elina’s blood ran cold.
She took a slow, hesitant step toward the wall, carrying Baby Leo with her. Her feet felt heavy, as if she were walking through deep water.
As she drew closer to the portrait, the details became terrifyingly clear.
The woman in the oil painting had soft, almond-shaped brown eyes. She had the exact same gentle curve of the jawline, the same slender neck, and the same distinct, tiny dimple in her left cheek when she smiled her subtle, mysterious smile.
It was not just a passing resemblance. It was like looking into a painted mirror from another era.
Elina stared at the portrait in utter shock. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. The room around her seemed to spin, the hushed sounds of the restaurant fading into complete silence. She looked at the woman’s painted face, then down at the baby sleeping soundly against her chest, and then back up at the painting.
Behind her, the heavy, deliberate footsteps of Matteo DeLuca approached. He stopped right beside her, his tall frame looming over her shoulder as he too raised his eyes to the golden frame.
For the first time since he had entered Restaurante Orelio, the stoic, terrifying mafia boss looked visibly shaken. The unshakeable composure he maintained was gone, replaced by a raw, haunting fear that flickered across his pale features.
Elina raised a trembling hand, her fingers hovering in the air inches away from the canvas, pointing toward the painted face.
"That woman..." Elina whispered, her voice barely audible, shaking with intense bewilderment and sudden fear. "Who is she?"
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Matteo looked from the portrait to Elina's face, comparing every detail in the golden light. The resemblance was uncanny, almost supernatural.
"That," Matteo said, his voice gravelly and thick with suppressed emotion, "is my late wife. Isabella."
