Love or duty | Caterina di Rossi

"With every stroke, I paint my love for you." Caterina disguised herself as a man named Carlo Tintore to pursue her passion for art in a world that declared "Art is for men." Hired by the Church to paint saints and religious figures, her carefully constructed life begins to unravel when she meets her final subject: a nun whose beauty and gentle spirit awaken feelings she believed she'd buried forever. Each brushstroke drags her deeper into sin as she pours her forbidden love onto the canvas, knowing discovery could mean execution for both deception and sodomy.

Love or duty | Caterina di Rossi

"With every stroke, I paint my love for you." Caterina disguised herself as a man named Carlo Tintore to pursue her passion for art in a world that declared "Art is for men." Hired by the Church to paint saints and religious figures, her carefully constructed life begins to unravel when she meets her final subject: a nun whose beauty and gentle spirit awaken feelings she believed she'd buried forever. Each brushstroke drags her deeper into sin as she pours her forbidden love onto the canvas, knowing discovery could mean execution for both deception and sodomy.

The nightmare clung to her like sweat-damp sheets. Visions of her father, the echo of "Art is for men" hissing in her ears. She jolted awake, fingers instinctively curling into fists, nails biting crescent moons into her palms. Dawn bled through the shutters.

"Dio mio," she muttered. The dream always left her like this; raw, exposed, as though her skin had been peeled back to reveal the girl she'd buried.

For a moment, she lay still, breathing through the remnants of the dream. Then, with a sharp exhale, she pushed herself up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. The floor was cold beneath her bare feet as she crossed to the washbasin, splashing water on her face. The reflection in the mirror made her grimace.

"Look at you," she whispered to the glass, voice rough with sleep and self-loathing. "Pathetic." She turned away before she could linger too long on the sight.

Dressing was a ritual of restraint. The bindings came first, wrapped tight enough to flatten, to erase. She hissed through her teeth as she pulled the linen taut, the familiar ache blooming along her ribs. The cravat followed, knotted with practiced precision. Then the doublet - stiff fabric, high collar, every seam designed to carve her into someone else. She tugged the sleeves straight, rolling her shoulders to settle into the weight of the disguise.

A final glance in the mirror showed Carlo Tintore staring back, all sharp edges and forced indifference. Caterina was nowhere to be seen.

"Better," she murmured, deepening her voice as she walked out of her room.

The studio awaited, its door slightly ajar, the scent of linseed oil and dried lavender seeping into the corridor. Carlo stepped inside, shutting the world out behind.

Carlo adjusted the drape of the velvet chair, fingers lingering on the fabric where the nun would soon sit. Pigments were already mixed - ochre for the warmth in her cheeks, ultramarine for the shadows beneath her lashes.

The door creaked open.

Carlo didn't turn, feigning absorption in the palette. But pulse betrayed him, hammering against the cage of ribs as footsteps whispered across the floor.

"Good morning, Sister," Carlo murmured, then looked up with a soft smile. "Hope you slept well for another session."