Page 138 of Forced Vows

It's too real a possibility with this man.

Miceli presses something on the wall and it slides back to reveal a stainless steal elevator door. He steps up to a biometric eye scanner and lets it do its thing.

The doors open revealing a small elevator with enough room for maybe six people. This building has at least ten floors. No way is this elevator adequate. There are no floor designations, just another biometric scanner, confirming the suspicion formed when I saw the size.

It's a private elevator.

To where though?

Miceli's hand settles on my lower back and he presses slightly so I step onto the elevator. The ride is short, but with no stops that could mean we're on the top floor or the second.

I'm guessing the top. The De Luca's are penthouse kind of people. I'm sure their friends and associates are too.

The door slides open with a whoosh directly into a large, open space.

The scent of linseed oil and turpentine teases my senses. Lights come on, and a second later, the soft whir of an invisible fan fills the air around us.

There's enough light from the floor to ceiling windows, the extra illumination isn't really necessary but maybe the owner likes really brightly lit spaces?

Unframed paintings hang gallery style on the wall to the left.

Is this some kind of private art gallery?

No. Not a gallery, a painter's studio.

Empty canvases stand, stacked against the wall on the bare wood floor. To the right, there's a kitchen with butcher block countertops.

Instead of dishes on the open shelves, there are jars smeared with paint, some filled with paint brushes. On this side of the island there are two art supply cabinets with lots of wide shallow drawers tucked under the breakfast bar.

Devoid of couches or chairs, there is only an artist stool and three easels. All sit on top of paint splotched drop cloths and have other, smaller cloths covering the canvases sitting on them.

We are standing in a private studio for an individual who does not expect to entertain.

"Who are we here to see?" I ask.

Miceli looks at me for a long silent moment. "Not a who. A what. This is my studio."

To stunned to speak, I stare back at him, my mouth hanging ajar. Attractive? I doubt it. But seriously?

The underboss has a studio? He's an artist?

"My father brought me here the first time when I was ten."

"That was kind of him." Surprisingly so for a ruthless don like his dad. "I mean, if you're an artist."

I'm still having trouble wrapping my mind around the idea that my underboss fiancé…almost fiancé…is an artist.

"I started drawing before I learned to read. My father trained me to only draw on paper. Eventually." Miceli shakes his head, like he's dispelling an unpleasant memory. "He couldn't get me to stop sketching all together though."

"Why would he want to?"

"To protect me."

From what? The drawing police? "I don't understand."

"When I was ten, he realized two things about me." Miceli stops talking, lost in his memories?

Is he going to make me ask what they are. Well, I will. I don't mind being nosy. "Two things?"

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