Page 22 of Claimed By the Ruthless King

Holding eye contact with Viv, I take the crow drawing from my pocket, showing her it.

Her green eyes flare wide, letting me know she recognizes this sketch.

“You remember drawing this,” I state, staring at her wide-eyed, needing an explanation. “What the hell is this?”

“Where did you get this?” says Aunt Viv.

“My mother’s blue dress. You know, the one with the pocket⁠—”

“Made in Tuscany, yes, I remember,” she says, finishing the sentence. She takes the sketch, ghosting her green manicured nail over each wing, her face turning vacant, like she’s disappearing into a memory.

“Aunt Viv?”

“Your mother drew this, dear.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“What does this symbol mean?” I pester, catching her eye. “You look like you recognize it.”

“The symbol means nothing, really.”

I frown, taking the drawing as she hands me it back. “But you looked shocked.”

“Yes, merging the past with the present can sometimes feel shocking if you’re not prepared.”

“Prepared,” I repeat, searching her face. “Why would you need to be prepared?”

“Why are you asking me this, dear?” asks Aunt Viv, her eyes drooping with sympathy. “Your mother used to keep lots of different items in her house, grocery lists, journal entries; why’s a crow drawing so special?”

“Maybe you can tell me. What happened in the past?”

“Nothing worth mentioning.”

“Mom warned me about the crows on her deathbed,” I say. “I assumed she was having a hallucination from the medication, but after seeing this and… something else, I now realize she was actually warning me, telling me to stay away from the crows.”

Aunt Viv frowns, stumped on something. “What else did you see, sweetie?” She brings me away from the window, into the far corner of the gallery. “You can tell me.”

“My… boss. He has a tattoo of this exact same crow.”

“And where was this tattoo?”

“Um,” I stutter, the mere mention of Mr. Moretti sending me up in flames. “His chest.”

A smile flickers across Aunt Viv’s face. “His chest?” she glances at me pointedly. “Is my niece having a little office romance?”

“No!” I say. “Nothing like that, ew, gross…” I shake off the thought before my cheeks show that I’m lying. “I walked in on him while he was dressing—we share an office. After seeing the drawing and the tattoo on his chest, I thought it was a little weird. The drawing is the exact same, hence my visit here today.”

“And here’s me thinking you wanted to spend some quality time with your kooky aunt,” she teases, slapping me jokingly on the shoulder. “That being said, if you ever want help syncing your cycle up to the phases of the moon, give me a shout.”

“I’m good,” I say, circling back around to the main point of this conversation. “What does this drawing mean?”

“Like I said, dear, this symbol was around long before you were born, nothing major. This small, very harmless group was created a long time ago, back when your mother and I were young. Teenage boys didn’t have video games to keep themselves occupied back then, so they formed a delinquent group in the city, messing around, spraying graffiti, stealing bleach from the grocery store; I’m sure you can paint the picture.”

“Maybe you can.”

“Oh, dear, I haven’t picked up a paintbrush since I was around your age. Running a gallery is busy.”