Birmingham, 1933

Luca Changretta, giver of the black hand, had almost laughed when he found one of his very own calling cards on his low living room table, with watercolour dots all over it, another one of your projects no doubt.

Of a morning, afternoon or evening, you could usually be found haunting your spacious studio in Luca's Birmingham townhouse, say dress speckled with dots of paint or murky water where you rinsed your brushes.

Luca was very private about you, only his closest circle knew about you, beyond that, it was need to know only, and if they didn't need to know, then they didn't know, did they?

He would only divulge tidbits about you to anybody beyond that circle if he was certain it would never leave their lips again, say for instance he was hurting someone, intent on killing them, he'd tell them about you, almost brag.

"My friend, do you enjoy the arts?.. My lady, my lady likes watercolours, it's a battle to get her away from her easel some days," then they'd be put to sleep.

Returning to his task at hand, to find you and have you pay for your oh-so heinous crime of defacing his token, he knew better than to startle you at your easel, having only narrowly avoided your wrath which had come hurtling towards him in the form of vermilion soaked paintbrush.

He poked his head around the door of your studio, tapping it lightly when he saw you weren't too focused.

Flipping the coloured in black hand card between his fingers he approached you.

"Care to explain, cara mia?" he hummed.