CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

LUCA

Finally, I'm inside my office, my personal space. I can stretch my legs on the table and smoke as many cigars as I deem fit without giving a fuck about the company's policy. My fingers grab the handle of the desk's top drawer, pulling it out. My hands fumble with the contents of the drawer until I find what I'm looking for. A white sketch pad. I carefully redraw it. Unfolding and spreading it on the desk, I use one finger to trace the outline of her face and her smile. Lily. Of course, I drew her in London, but I couldn't give her the portrait. I'm too selfish. I actually lied about not being able to draw because drawing was one activity that fueled the demons in me.

I didn't lie when I said the only thing I drew was nude. For three years, I was chained, abused, and forced to draw dirty, depraved art. Men fucking animals, trees, and children. More often than not, they were still life. I hated drawing. The very art I loved the most.

After my escape, I tried drawing a few times, b