Stefano Valentini x Reader: Facade - Chapter 2

Current Time: November 27^th, 2015

=2=

A low groan passed your lips as the sound of your alarm rung within your ears, and you curled your fingers into your pillow as you buried your head beneath it. As much as you prayed for the incessant noise to cease, you eventually gave a defeated sigh and reached your right arm over, your digits dancing across the bedside table in search of the whining phone. Eventually you felt the smooth screen beneath your fingertips, and you hastily dragged it towards you—you poked your head out from underneath the pillow for only a moment so you could swipe your thumb properly across the screen and mute the alarm, and then hummed in relief once silence filled your apartment again. You allowed your eyes to flutter shut once more, eagerly embracing the sleep that was attempting to claim you as its own… but wait, what time had you seen upon the screen of your phone? Your heart suddenly surged as adrenaline rushed through your veins, and you scrambled to sit up as you gripped your phone within your hands. 5:30 P.M. You had set your alarm for the wrong time. Shit.

You shot out of bed, flinging your phone behind you onto the messy sheets as you made a mad dash for the bathroom; you had overslept, and you had less than an hour before you were supposed to arrive at the Krimson City Gallery. You tore your shirt off over the top of your head, tossing it into some random corner of the bathroom, and then nearly tripped as you tugged off your pants. Thank God you had taken a shower that morning—one less thing to worry about. You hastily shoved the plug of your iron into the outlet on the wall, pressing the button on the side so that it would be fully heated whenever you came back to it. You rushed into your closet, hurriedly flipping through several outfits; what on earth were you going to wear? Perhaps a dress? No, you didn’t want to seem too formal. But, then again, what was too formal for an event like this? God, now you were regretting taking that afternoon nap.

You decided that a pair of black slacks and a blood-red, fitted, button-up shirt would be best for the occasion—it was simple, but you figured it would go over well with the mood of the solo show you were attending. You slipped each of your arms into the proper holes of the shirt, your fingers fumbling over themselves as you attempted to button it as quickly as possible. You sighed in annoyance as you realized you had accidentally skipped over a hole, and the entire shirt was now uneven as the left side dangled lower than its sister side. You mumbled some profanity to yourself as you slipped each button back out of their corresponding holes, then made sure to get the pattern right this time around. Once such a task was complete, you slid one leg into the black slacks you had gripped within your fingers, tugging them upwards as you hobbled out of your closet towards your mirror—your (color) eyes glanced up into the glass as you buttoned your pants, making absolutely certain that the zipper wasn’t undone. The last thing you wanted was to make a fool of yourself in front of not only the other critics, whom already considered you a thorn in their sides, but in front of Stefano himself.

You brushed your fingers underneath your collar to even it out, making sure that you were as decent as possible before grabbing the bottom of your now-heated iron. You began to run it along various bits of your hair, making your way around the entirety of your head until you were satisfied with the results. You glanced over at the analog clock that sat in the corner of your sink, and saw that it was now 5:53—you had thirty-seven minutes before the show officially began, and a soft groan left your lips as you wrapped your fingers around your perfume bottle. You pressed down upon the top, several spritzes of the liquid lightly coating your upper body in your favorite scent. You yanked the cord of your iron, which tugged the plug out from within the socket of the wall, and then placed it upon the countertop so it could cool down whilst you were out of the apartment.

You hurriedly made your way into your bedroom, grabbing a pair of flesh-colored socks from within your drawer before plopping down upon the edge of your bed to tug them onto your feet. The nylon was soft and flexible, and near unnoticeable if you didn’t stare too hard at it, which you doubted that anyone would do tonight. Finally, you grabbed a pair of black dress shoes, which you slipped onto your feet.

As much as you wished you could prepare yourself a bit more, you knew that you absolutely had to get going. You dug around in your disheveled sheets for your phone, which you shoved into your pocket upon finding it, and then made your way out into the living room of your apartment. You grabbed your notebook and pen, placing them into your bag before slinging the strap over your shoulder—though you were attending the show for personal reasons, you also had to remember that you had a job to do, and writing down notes for your upcoming critique would be in both you and Stefano’s best interest. You made sure to grab your keycard from the table beside the entrance to your apartment, and you gave a small smile as you saw the now-framed photograph that Stefano had given you nearly a week ago sitting upon the very same table. Tonight, you’d be able to see the real thing for yourself.

=2=

“Thank you so much, sir!”

You handed several bills to your taxi driver, then turned on your heel to begin heading up the set of cement steps that led into the Krimson Gallery. You slid up your sleeve to take a look at your watch, and you sighed deeply as you saw the time: 6:17. You had made it on time, and with several minutes to spare, which was honestly quite a surprise to you. As you paced your way up the steps, you noticed several familiar faces that were making their way towards the front entrance—there was James King, who was a well-renowned critic of the arts, Amy McGee, who had produced several columns about Stefano’s art within the Krimson Post over the past few years, and, much to your dismay, Susan Phi, who shot you a rather dirty look upon noticing you. You quickly averted your gaze from her, forcing yourself to pick up the pace to get away from these people; you knew you weren’t on the best of terms with them, and you weren’t looking for any problems right now.

Upon first entering the gallery, you noticed that the lights had been dimmed—instead of their normal whitish-gold glow, they all emitted a faint, crimson hue that covered the entirety of the building. The walls had been covered in Stefano’s photographs, and you couldn’t help the small smile that came to your lips upon seeing them. You wandered over to one of the more barren areas of the gallery, hoping that it stayed that way so you could examine the photographs in peace, and began to take in the various framed pictures that hung perfectly upon the walls. The first, which was titled “Vision,” was a close-up shot of what appeared to be a male eye. Several lines of crimson blood streaked across his skin, coagulated bits covering various parts of his eyelashes. It was quite a simple photograph, but like his other work, it told a story that only Stefano knew.

The next image that caught your attention was one of three individual hands; each one was reaching for the object within the center of the photograph, which was nothing more than a mere apple. Within the background, you noticed several small piles of rose petals, and a few dark pools of what appeared to be blood. You hummed softly to yourself in thought, your (color) eyes falling down to the golden plaque that rested beneath the frame. The title of this image was “Fruits of Our Labor.”

It was then that you suddenly remembered that you had brought your notebook with you, and you began to rummage around within your bag to locate it. Once you managed to find it, you tugged it out and opened to a blank page, clicking your pen to life before you began to scrawl down some messy notes for later.

    1.     Mr. Valentini makes simplistic imagery appear incredibly detailed, and each one tells a unique story.

    2.     Mr. Valentini composes unique and fitting titles for each piece of work he produces.

    3.     Mr. Valentini uses dark colors and visions of gore to portray-

“Well, well. I’m glad my artwork makes you feel that way.”

You nearly jumped out of your skin as you felt hot breath hit the side of your neck, and you nearly dropped both your pen and your notebook as you fumbled to keep them steady within your grasp. Once you had successfully managed to keep your belongings clutched against your chest, you turned your head to see none other than Stefano, who was wearing a rather mischievous smile upon his lips. You gave a quick exhale, allowing your heart to stop stampeding within the confines of your chest, and then closed your notebook before placing it back into your bag. So much for writing down some notes—for now, at least.

“God, you scared me. It’s not nice to read over people’s shoulders, you know…”

“Oh, but signorina… I simply must know what you think of my beautiful work. After all, you are one of the very few who finds beauty in them as I do.”

As he finished speaking, the artist brought his right hand out from behind his back, his thumb and forefinger gripping onto the stem of a champagne glass that he was currently offering you. You cocked your head a bit upon seeing it, but welcomingly accepted his gift by gently taking the glass from his grasp; you brought the rim to your mouth, allowing the bubbling liquid to seep past your lips and into your maw. You gave a hum of approval at the taste of it, which seemed to please the artist standing before you; you then turned to look at the various pictures upon the walls, a smile on your lips as began to speak.

“Well, if you must know what I think of your photography, I adore it. You have a way of making even the simplest of pictures catch my eye, and that’s something that I believe is a needed quality for a photographer and artist to have. Also, don’t get me started on the lighting and posing that you use—I can’t begin to express how perfect each setting is.”

“Please, you flatter me. I simply can’t wait to reveal my two latest works to you. You’ve seen one of them, of course, but there is one that you have yet to see.”

You felt your heart flutter within your chest—Stefano had created another work of art that you hadn’t seen yet? Oh, what a wonderful turn of events! Surely the quality of it would be just as good as the one within your apartment, or, knowing Stefano, even better. You watched as he diverted his gaze to an area across the gallery, where two covered photographs sat upon the wall—you assumed these were the photos he was speaking of, and your curiosity was piqued already.

“Would you perhaps give me the time, signorina?”

You gave a nod of your head as you shifted your sleeve so that your watch was visible to you, and you held out your wrist for the artist to see: 6:37. He exhaled a soft breath, then folded his arms across his chest as a thoughtful look crossed his face.

“I suppose I shall wait a while before unveiling my masterpieces. For the meantime, enjoy yourself, Ms. (Last Name). And please, by all means, continue taking those notes of yours.”

You saw the corners of his lips curl into a teasing smile, and you couldn’t help the redness that rushed across your cheeks; thank God the gallery was currently tinted crimson, otherwise your embarrassment might have been even greater. Stefano turned on his heel and paced off into the crowd of critics and guests, and you brought your glass to your lips to take another sip of your champagne. That man was certainly something else.

=2=

As the night progressed, you had managed to make your way around the rest of the gallery, your notebook now filled with various notes about each piece of art you came across. At this point, you were already beginning to piece together the next article you would write on Stefano’s artwork within your head, and making sure to write down any ideas that you had so you didn’t happen to forget them later. Currently, you were jotting down some notes about Stefano as a person rather than an artist, and how he incorporated his personality into his artwork; the night the two of you had spent together at the bar was coming in handy, since you had gotten to experience what he was like outside of his artistic career.

You stopped writing your current note as you noticed the crimson light encasing the room dim down to almost darkness, and you turned your attention to the only lit area of the gallery—the two photographs hidden beneath their red curtains. Your heart began to pound with excitement; Stefano must have been ready to finally show off his two new pieces of artwork! You slithered your way through the crowd that was beginning to form in front of the wall until you managed to reach the front, your gaze falling upon a confident Stefano who was standing alongside his creations.

“Ladies and gentleman, as the end of our time together draws to a close, I would like to have the pleasure of revealing two of my newest creations to your eager eyes.”

His fingers curled into the fabric of the first red curtain, and with one swift motion, he tugged it from the frame and allowed it to drift onto a pile upon the wooden floor. Your eyes befell the same image you had seen the night you had met Stefano, and you were immediately drawn to the golden plaque that rested beneath it: Innocent Gift. So that was the name that he had hidden from you that night—it was surprisingly fitting, and you made sure to make a note of that within your journal. However, as you were scrawling down your notes, you heard the crowd around you begin to whisper things that you couldn’t quite catch. However, you had a gut feeling that they weren’t singing Stefano’s praises.

“And for my final revealing of the night, I give to you my most recent creation: my beautiful Afterglow.”

The artist tugged the final curtain from its resting place, the image that hid beneath finally being revealed to your anxiously-awaiting eyes. Much like his previous photograph, this one centered around a single hand; the hand itself was almost white in color, dark streaks and splotches of crimson splattered across the skin. It was resting upon what looked to be a wooden table, where a single, red rose teetered upon the edge across from the ever-reaching hand. Several petals were scattered about the wood, and the dark colors surrounding the edges of the photograph made the illuminated center draw even more attention. Though it was incredibly dark in theme, it was still a beautiful work of art. The whispers about you grew in volume, and as you went to write down some notes for his newest creation, you heard a man clear his throat—this silenced the crowd around you, and brought your attention upon him. It was James King, the middle-aged critic with greying facial hair and a slightly-balding scalp.

“Mr. Valentini… for the second time now, you have revealed your inner ideologies of what you assume to be beauty to the populous of Krimson City, and I believe I speak for all in attendance when I ask: why? What on earth could possibly possess you to believe that photography of depictions of death and gore are a form of art, much less beauty?”

You felt your brows furrow, and your chest tightened as a sense of irritation began to grow within you—these people weren’t here to observe Stefano’s art; they were here to make a mockery of him. You glanced from King to Stefano, who had a look of confusion upon his features, but it soon reverted back to its normal calm and collected expression. He parted his lips to offer a response to the man whom had addressed him, but immediately halted himself as King began to speak once more.

“Do you know why we all attended this show tonight, Mr. Valentini? It wasn’t for the mere interest of art, because we certainly see none of that here. No… we attended this show to see how much more of a fool you intend to mold yourself into.”

“Excuse me?”

It took a moment for the crowd to realize that the loud outburst hadn’t come from Stefano, but rather from you. You gripped your journal tightly within your hand, and you were thankful that you had placed your champagne glass down long ago—had you not, you would have undoubtedly broken it with the rage-fueled grip you now had upon your journal. You knew that all eyes were now upon you, and you forced yourself to ignore them as you stared directly at King, who had a rather amused look upon his face.

“First of all, how dare you—how dare you come into this building with no other goal than to make a fool out of Mr. Valentini. You are one of Krimson City’s most renowned critics, and might I say you’re acting pretty poorly for such a position. In fact, all of you have been! I will no longer hide behind the words of my columns; you all need to realize how horribly out of line you’ve been acting.”

You stepped forward, making a gesture towards the two photographs upon the wall. You noticed that the crowd in front of you had appalled looks upon their faces, as though someone had insulted their entire family lineage, and you didn’t care one bit. In fact, you were glad. King now had a scowl upon his lips, and you returned it with one of your own as you continued to speak.

“You are taking everything that Mr. Valentini produces at face-value. In all honesty, you’re acting like a bunch of spoiled, selfish children that were sheltered from the fact that blood, gore, and warfare actually exist. Ever since he began his career after coming back from the war, you’ve all done nothing but try and drive his career into the ground.”

You had years of emotion pouring out of you now, and the silence within the gallery was deafening. The stares you were getting were radiating malice, but again, you could care less about that. These people who dared call themselves critics were acting like children, and if you weren’t the one who spoke out about it, you doubted anyone else ever would. Stepping away from Stefano’s photography, you made your way in front of King, until you were only a few inches away from him—you met his scowl with your own, and you opened your mouth to speak again.

“Need I read some of the things you’ve sent me, hmm? For merely stating my opinion, which, by the way, as a critic, you need to be able to handle, I was basically crucified by every person in this very room for a week straight. Emails, phone calls… I got each and every one of them. I read every vulgar word, heard every revolting message, and let me tell you… it proved my point even further. As critics, we analyze, explain, and offer constructive advice, if necessary. We do not make a living off driving aspiring artists into the ground, and belittling them for their unique visions—all of which you’ve been doing to Mr. Valentini for years.”

You stared into the narrowed eyes of King, who said nothing in response to your elongated outburst. If you were honest, he had a face that was begging to be punched, but you weren’t going to take things that far out of respect for yourself and the artist that you were defending. You forced yourself to move away from the critic before your mind got the better of you, and then took a quick glance down at your watch: 9:32 P.M. A sarcastic smile grew upon your lips, and you stooped down at your waist to give an over-exaggerated bow that ended with you gesturing towards the front doors.

“Oh, and look at that… the exhibit is now over. I’d suggest all of you leave, since you all have nothing of value to offer here.”

You could feel your temples pulsating lightly as you stared at the appalled audience in front of you, and you had to admit that you were rather relieved when you noticed several of them take their leave towards the entrance of the gallery. As much as you were proud of yourself for finally taking a stand against these people, you had the lingering feeling of wanting to be sick—you were filled with the anxiety of what repercussions this outburst might cause, and the longer you stared at the crowd, which was slowly filtering towards the entrance, the more prominent this feeling became. Eventually, every person aside from James King had left the building, and he stepped forward until he was hovering over you with almost malicious intent.

“You are strangely admirable, (Last Name). But, don’t think for one moment this will simply blow over. My reach is far—my influence equally so. You’ll soon realize your place within this community isn’t where you believe it to be.”

With that, the man’s lips curled into a small smile, and he stepped off towards the entrance of the building. You remained still for some time, frozen almost, and then felt your stomach lurch; you had to use every ounce of willpower you possessed to avoid becoming sick, and you brought your free hand over your mouth whilst you steadied yourself both physically and mentally. Unfortunately, you were forced to sit down against the wall due to the light feeling that overtook your head—though you had done your best to defend Stefano, you now felt as though you looked like a fool for reacting like this. What was going to happen to you? King was right; if he wanted to, he could bring down your chance at becoming a successful critic.

“Your words resonate such dedication and devotion, mia cara. Such vocal defense is something I have never had the pleasure of experiencing until now.”

You avoided looking up at Stefano, whom had remained silent until only now. Your anxiety-riddled body wouldn’t allow for it, and you could feel your hands physically shaking now as you continued attempting to calm yourself. Out of your peripheral vision, you noticed that Stefano had dropped to one knee beside you, and was now holding something out in your direction—you glanced over, seeing your journal clasped within his fingers. Had you dropped your journal? Your mind was in such a sorry state that you couldn’t remember if you had, let alone when. You stared at it for only a moment, and then reached out a shaky hand and took it from his grasp.

“T-thank you…”

You finally managed to dribble out those two words, and a quiet sigh passed through Stefano’s lips. His gaze was drawn towards the front entrance of the gallery, where several of the critics still lingered—talking down about his defender, no doubt. Such imbeciles. He then rose to his feet, flicking a switch upon the wall to illuminate the room in a better light—once that was done, he extended his gloved hand down in your direction, offering to help you to your feet.

You looked up at him, unsure of whether or not you wished to try standing, but took his hand nevertheless and slowly helped yourself to your feet. It was silent for a while, but you eventually turned your attention back to the two photographs upon the wall.

“I… I really do like them, Stefano. I just don’t see how everyone else doesn’t.”

“It is as you said, mia cara. They shelter themselves within a bubble of blissful ignorance, refusing to acknowledge the darker side of the world around them.”

You gave a quiet hum in response, your gaze still drawn to the photographs in front of you. They were dark, and they were gory, but they were beautiful nonetheless. You looked down at the journal you held within your hand, then undid the clasp upon the front and opened it to reveal the notes you had taken that night. Your eyes wandered over your writing, and you furrowed your brows—you weren’t about to let what King had said stop you. You were going to write a damn good column about this solo show, and you were going to praise Stefano’s work; even if it meant enduring the malice and lashes the other critics threw at you.

“(Name), might I offer to return you to your home this evening? It is the very least I can do for such bravery in defending my name.”

You glanced over at Stefano, who had a soft smile upon his lips—such a smile was something that brought comfort to you, and you exhaled deeply before offering a smile of your own. How could you turn down such an offer?

“I wouldn’t mind that at all, Stefano. I appreciate it.”

=2=

Whilst in the company of Stefano, the trip up the long flight of stairs that led to your apartment was a lot less lonely than it typically was. Though the talk between the two of you was small, it was still incredibly comforting—especially after the events that had taken place earlier in the evening. Whenever you finally reached the top of the stairs, you shrugged your bag off of your shoulder and began to rummage around inside it in an attempt to find your keycard; thankfully you found it rather quickly, and you swiped it through the reader before opening the door to your apartment.

“Stefano, perhaps you’d like to come inside? Only if you’re not in a hurry, of course.”

“Hmm? Ah, no, mia cara, I am in no form of hurry. It would be my pleasure to accompany you inside.”

You nodded your head as you proceeded through your door, holding it open for a moment whilst Stefano made his way through the entrance. Once he was inside, you shut the door and listened to the automatic lock whir into place, and you saw that he had already taken interest in the framed photograph that rested upon the table near the entryway. You could tell he had a pleased smile upon his lips, and he bent over slightly to get a better look of it.

“I see you framed the photograph, hmm?”

“Oh, yes. I couldn’t let such a nice picture go without a frame, after all. It deserves to be shown off!”

He hummed pleasantly in response to your words, then brought himself to stand upright again as he began to look over the rest of your apartment. It was rather sizeable, with an equally sizeable kitchen area connected to the living room. There was a mid-sized television sitting upon an entertainment center near the wall in the living area, with a couch and adjacent loveseat sitting several feet in front of it. Between the two objects sat a table, furnished with a large candle in the center, and several decorative coasters that sat on either side of it. Near the back of the living room was a small hallway that led to a closed door—one which he assumed led into your personal bedroom.

“Please, feel free to make yourself at home for the time being, Stefano. Would you like some wine?”

Stefano turned his attention away from his surroundings and onto you, and gave a small nod of his head.

“Wine would be wonderful, (Name).”

Now having an answer, you walked into your kitchen and opened one of the cupboard doors, which housed a small wine holder—you hummed to yourself as you contemplated which one to partake in, and you figured that Stefano would appreciate the bottle of Bricco Pernice you had within your home. You carefully tugged it from its resting place, then grabbed two wine glasses from within your glass cabinet; after you had removed the seal and the cork, you poured each glass about a third of the way full, and then began walking over to the living room, where Stefano had taken a seat upon the couch. You held out his glass, which he promptly took from you, and then sat down upon the loveseat and crossed your legs—a sigh of relief left your lips as you relaxed against the plush fabric, something that you were eager to do tonight. Your gaze fell upon Stefano, who had brought the glass to his lips to partake in his wine; after taking a sip, you saw him cock his eyebrow, and he glanced over at you.

“Bricco Pernice?”

“I see you know your wine!”

“But of course. I was born in Italy, after all.”

You gave him a small smile, then brought your glass to your lips to take a sip of your wine. Though it was quiet within your apartment, the sounds of the bustling city beneath you formed a light ambience that was oddly calming. You swirled the crimson liquid around gently within your glass, becoming slightly entranced by it as you began to speak.

“I was born here, in Krimson City. My mother was sixteen—I say was, because she died shortly after giving birth to me. My father, otherwise known as the playboy of the school my mother attended, was nowhere to be found when I was born. I ended up going to an adoption home, where I lived until I was two; I was then adopted by an elderly couple, whom I loved dearly. They’re… they’re both gone now, but I ended up making a life for myself because of them.”

Stefano kept his gaze upon you as you spoke, a quiet sigh passing his lips. Hearing you speak of your family brought memories of his own back into his mind—his mother, whom had since passed, working two jobs in order to keep him fed, the nights he spent working in the fields just to help his mother obtain some form of decent income, the day she wished him well when he went off to photograph the horrors of war, and the letter he received informing him of his mother’s passing. His father, the goddamn bastard who left his mother shortly after hearing that she was pregnant to run off with another whore of his, he never cared to know. In that sense, he supposed he could relate to you. He decided against revealing his past to you, however, and instead turned his attention to a record player that sat in the back corner of the room.

“You possess a record player? It’s rather rare to find one of those in this day and age.”

“O-oh! Yeah! It was a gift from my parents. I uh… grew up listening to Dean Martin and have almost all his records.”

You rose to your feet, walking over to the record player and tugging out one of your favorite records; you then carefully opened the top of the player and placed the record upon the platter, wasting no time to move the tone arm over and press the stylus gently upon it. There was a light crackling for a moment, but you smiled when you heard the man upon the record begin to sing gently.

“Return to me… oh my dear, I’m so lonely…”

You sighed softly as the music filled your ears, then made your way over to the loveseat and sat down upon it again. You watched as Stefano stared at the record player for a moment, and then shook his head as a light smile graced his lips.

“It’s been quite a long time since I’ve heard this man’s voice. Though I prefer classical music, particularly Serenade for Strings by Tchaikovsky, I don’t mind this particular genre. It’s quite soothing.”

You gave a nod of your head, taking another sip of your wine as an elongated sigh passed your lips. The two of you sat in silence for a while, simply listening to the crooning voice of Dean Martin fill the room. However, after a while, you found yourself giving a rather tired yawn; you glanced down at your watch to see that it was close to eleven, and you brought your free hand up to rub at your eyes. Stefano seemed to notice this, and he chuckled quietly.

“Tired already, mia cara?”

“I apologize. I haven’t been sleeping well this past week…”

“No, no. You needn’t apologize. I suppose I should be going, anyway.”

Stefano rose to his feet, taking a final drink from his glass to finish off the wine that was left inside. He then made his way over to the kitchen, where he promptly cleaned the glass and placed it into the dishwasher—this was something that honestly surprised you. Even though you wouldn’t vocally admit it, he didn’t seem like the type to do such a thing of his own accord. Perhaps he wasn’t afraid of getting his hands dirty? (Though you did notice he took care not to get his suit wet).

“Oh, thank you for doing that, Stefano. I would have taken care of it.”

“Nonsense. I wouldn’t allow you to clean up a mess that wasn’t yours.”

He gave you a smile, and then proceeded to walk over to the front door. You followed him, tugging it open so that he could easily pass through; he wandered out into the hallway, where he then turned and gave you a soft farewell. You returned it with a ‘have a good night’ of your own, and then gently shut the door once he was headed down the stairs. You felt good—better than you had several hours ago, anyway. You walked over to the sink and rinsed out your own wine glass, placing it alongside Stefano’s within the dishwasher before closing it and heading over to the record player. It was now emitting a gentle cracking once more, and you laughed quietly to yourself as you took the record off the platter and placed it back into its sheath. Perhaps you’d start using the player a bit more than you had been.

Once you had closed the lid and placed the record back with the others, you began to unbutton your top as you walked down the hallway towards your room. Once you opened the door, you tossed your shirt onto the floor and then sighed in relief as you took off your bra—there was nothing quite like that feeling of freedom at the end of the day, and you reveled in it as you took off your shoes and black slacks. As tempting as it was to simply lay in bed and sleep nearly nude, you decided against it and dressed yourself in some comfortable sleepwear before laying down in your bed. For once, as you plugged your phone in, you didn’t see any the email or voicemail icons, which was quite a relief. You wrapped your arms around your pillow, a deep sigh leaving your lips as you closed your eyes and eagerly embraced sleep.

=2=

“You did wonderfully tonight… as I knew you would. Such neophytes cannot comprehend the beauty that you offered them this evening. Though, it did get a rise out of that young woman, didn’t it?”

Stefano chuckled to himself as he placed his camera down upon his desk, then took a seat upon the chair that sat behind his desk. His eye fell upon the column that he had torn from the paper all those days ago, and he shook his head as a light smile graced his lips. He then looked up at the pictures above his desk, which were now back where they belonged and properly in order, and then exhaled deeply. It would seem as though he was doing well at keeping his masks on, since it would seem that you suspected nothing whilst in his presence.

“I will admit, her anger was quite beautiful; never before have I experienced such devotion to my work. She is quite the specimen…”

He looked up at his newest creation, his gloved hand running through his hair as he admired the beauty before him. It certainly was a refreshing feeling to have some form of praise, though it was coming from one small source. No matter—that one small source was all that he needed to remind himself that his work must continue.

“Perhaps I’ll indulge myself in some personal photography for now… photos that the public eye will not be subjected to. It’s been quite a while since I’ve done anything of that sort, and it would be a lovely change of pace.”

Once more, his eye dropped to the column that was sitting underneath the lamp upon the corner of his desk. He trailed along the lines of words until he eventually came to a halt at the bottom, his gaze now upon the little photograph of you.

“And I believe I’ve found the perfect model.”

=2=

 

Author’s Note (1): Before questioning whether or not this particular view of Stefano’s attitude is “unaligned” with the persona we see in the game, please remember that this particular part of the story is taking place before the events of the game, thus his persona might act a bit differently.

Author’s Note (2): Yes, Dean Martin is a wonderful singer. Yes, this will come into play later in the story. If you’d like to experience the song Reader and Stefano are listening to, please feel free to look up “Return to Me.”

Author’s Note (3): Between college, various anxiety issues about whether or not this story is up to par with the expectations of my audience, and the word count (each chapter is approximately 6k in total) certain chapters might come out later than others. I assure my audience this story will not be abandoned any time soon. I spend hours researching, jumping in and out of game, and doing various things to make sure that I write the best story I possibly can for everyone.

Author’s Note (4): Thanks to a certain reader of this story who contacted me, I now know particular phrases Stefano would be more likely to speak in Italian—hence more mia cara and less mia amica. Thank you, friend.

Author’s Note (5): Stefano’s childhood/adolescence is entirely my head canon. It’s touched on briefly here, but be delved into further in later chapters.

Author’s Note (6): Since a vast majority of Stefano’s artwork is unlabeled and unnamed, I will provide names—each picture described within this work is found in the game at one point or another.