Who's Behind This Masterpiece?

A cacophony of hushed murmurs erupted as Achille rose from his seat, a triumphant glint in his steely gaze. Across the room, Leopold's face contorted into a mask of fury – his astronomical bid trumped by Achille's extravagant one. 

With measured steps, Achille strode towards the stage to finalize the purchase. The auctioneer, his voice trembling slightly with disbelief, offered congratulations.

"Signor Selvaggio," he stammered, "a truly remarkable acquisition. A record-breaking night, indeed."

Achille, his expression a carefully crafted mask, offered a curt nod. "Thank you," he replied, accepting the paperwork with a flourish.

The after-party buzzed with the gentle hum of conversation and the clinking of champagne flutes. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow upon the elegantly attired guests who mingled amidst the opulent surroundings of the Moretti mansion's grand ballroom. While the air crackled with a celebratory energy, Achille's mind remained preoccupied by the enigmatic painting he now possessed.

As he navigated the throng, his gaze fell upon Signore Moretti and his family. Ariana, the alleged artist of the final piece, was enveloped by a swarm of admirers, basking in the attention. However, a flicker of unease flickered across Signore Moretti's face. His eyes, filled with a veiled recognition, lingered on the painting – the unmistakable features of his deceased wife a haunting echo on the canvas. A secret only he knows.

With a practiced smile, Achille approached the Moretti family. "Signore Moretti, Signora Moretti, Signorina Moretti," he greeted them with a slight bow.

Signore Moretti offered a strained smile in return. "Signor Selvaggio," he acknowledged, his voice laced with a hint of tension. "Congratulations on your… acquisition."

Achille's eyes narrowed, a silent question lingering in their depths. 'What secrets lie behind his disquiet?'

Signora Moretti, a striking woman with raven hair and eyes as dark as night, interjected with a dazzling smile. "Such a gallant gesture, Signor Selvaggio. Supporting your future wife – a true testament to your devotion."

Achille's reply was laced with a hint of awkwardness. "Indeed, Signora Moretti," he murmured, his gaze briefly meeting Ariana's before flitting away. "Signorina Moretti, your artistry is undeniable. I eagerly await seeing more of your creations in the future."

Ariana, a blush creeping upon her cheeks, offered a coy smile. "Thank you, Achille," she replied, her voice a melodic whisper. "I strive to create pieces that resonate with the soul, and I'm glad this one spoke to yours."

Achille's jaw clenched. 'How can she weave such a web of deceit?' Fury simmered beneath his composed exterior, threatening to erupt. Just then, a waiter approached their group, offering a tray of champagne flutes.

Achille took a glass, schooling his features into a semblance of calm. "Grazie," he murmured in acknowledgement.

As the guests around them raised their flutes in a celebratory toast, Ariana slipped her arm through Achille's, a gesture that reignited his simmering anger. He stole a glance at her, her words replaying in his mind like a mocking aria.

Signore and Signora Moretti, seemingly engaged in their own silent conversation, subtly excused themselves and moved away from the group. Though tempted to follow, Achille decided against it.

A low murmur of discontent erupted from Signore Moretti. "Francesca, where is Cristiano?" he hissed into his wife's ear. "Didn't I tell you the importance of tonight?"

Signora Moretti offered a helpless shrug. "My love, I have no idea," she replied, her voice laced with a hint of exasperation. "Perhaps he simply forgot."

"Forgot? Forgotten an event of such significance? He's the heir apparent, for God's sake! He should be out here mingling, not… not…" Signore Moretti's voice trailed off, his frustration evident.

"Calm yourself, Alessandro," Francesca pleaded, a furrow etching itself between her brows. "I'll try to reach him."

"See to it then," he growled, his features hardening into a mask of indifference. "Before he stumbles in here, reeking of… whatever debauchery he's been indulging in, and disgraces us all."

With a final, withering glance, Alessandro turned away, leaving Francesca to watch his retreating form with a heavy sigh.

***

Achille forced a smile, his gaze darting around the room like a caged animal seeking escape. Ariana's voice, once captivating, now droned on about the nuances of capturing a soul on canvas, each word a dull thud against his growing disquiet. His eyes, drawn by a subconscious pull, landed on Benito Raffaelle across the room. The supposed art dealer stood stiffly near the edge of the ballroom, a solitary figure amidst the swirling sea of guests. A flicker of suspicion ignited within Achille. So, Benito wasn't with Silvana Favoloso after all? 

Suddenly, a figure cut through the crowd, and Alessandro materialized beside Benito. The jovial smile that usually adorned the older man's face was strained, his eyes clouded with a deep-seated worry. 

"Signore Moretti," Benito greeted with a touch too much joviality, "I trust the auction was a smashing success as always?"

Alessandro offered a curt nod, his forced smile failing to reach his eyes. "Indeed, Signore Raffaelle. However, there's a matter concerning the final painting…" He trailed off, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Who… or how… or where did you obtain it?"

Benito's brow furrowed. He cast a wary glance around the room, ensuring no one else eavesdropped on their conversation. "Is there a problem with the painting, Signore? It seems to have fetched quite a price."

"The price is… irrelevant," Alessandro snapped, then quickly reined himself in. He forced a tight smile, the lines around his eyes deepening. "Not at all, Signore Raffaelle," he assured, his voice betraying a tremor of unease. "A mere flicker of curiosity, that's all. Tell me, where did you get such a… remarkable piece?"

Benito chuckled, a touch too forced. "Ah, that, my dear Signore," he began, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "is a tale best left untold for another time. Perhaps over a glass of the finest Tuscan vino on a moonlit balcony?"

Alessandro's face hardened. The art dealer's evasiveness only fueled his suspicions. "Intriguing," he muttered, his voice laced with a dangerous edge. "But for now, I must insist. Who is the artist?"

Benito scoffed, a puff of air escaping his thick mustache. "Indeed, Signore. You know as well as I that the fellow who sold it to me was tight-lipped. Not a peep about the artist. Unsigned, the whole lot." His eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering.

Alessandro studied Benito with a piercing gaze, his mind a tangled web of doubt. Silvana was the only one who knew about Isabella's death. He'd silenced her effectively, placing her far away with the responsibility of raising Bianca. But Silvana never showed any interest in art, let alone possessed the talent to create such a masterpiece. 

The only one who had such talent was Isabella herself, but she is dead, he definitely killed her that day. So, who else could it be? Alessandro thought as he felt a bead of sweat prickle on his forehead. 

'What is it about this painting that has gotten Signore Moretti so worked up?' he thought as he noticed Alessandro's expression, a sardonic smile playing on his lips. "Signore Moretti," he drawled, his voice dripping with amusement, "the painting captured such… such… profound emotion, don't you agree? You really hit the jackpot this time. I'm hoping to receive my payment soon."

A shiver ran down Alessandro's spine at Benito's choice of words as he pursed his lips. Profound. It echoed the haunting depths he'd glimpsed in the painting, the same depths reflected in the eyes of his deceased wife staring back at him from the canvas. He longed to delve deeper, but the risk was too great. 

"Thank you, Benito, I will send your payment in due time," he mumbled, the weight of his turmoil pressing down. "Perhaps another time." He turned to leave, his mind churning.

'Bianca? Impossible,' he scoffed internally. 'The girl's as sharp as a butter knife. Naive, yes, but a painter? Preposterous!' Still, a sliver of doubt remained, a viper slithering into his carefully constructed reality.