Page 7 of Passion and Revenge

I ignore Kat and just say, “I’ve got to go.”

Hanging up, I tuck my phone back into my pocket and make my way back to the now-empty showroom, where the staff is shutting the door.

Mr. Santiago immediately spots me and begins to approach, a wide smile splitting his face. “Sienna, darling.”

Ettore Santiago’s gallery was recommended to me by another artist who sang praises about how wonderful working with him was. He’s a forty-something-year-old bespectacled man with salt and pepper hair. He’s honestly wonderful, but he really needs to throw Veda out on her ass.

“You’re a treasure, a delight. I don’t know what you said or did, but you must have struck a chord because you sold.”

I gasp. “I—I did?”

“Yes. I’ve just said so, haven’t I?”

“How many?”

“All of them,” he exclaims. “And they paid far more than what I valued them for. Three million for the paintings.”

My mouth drops open in shock. “Just the five? For three million?”

He gives me a pitying look. “That’s not what I meant.”

I start to smile, just glad that someone bought the entire series. “Oh, okay.”

“I meant they paid three million apiece,” Mr. Santiago says. “A total of fifteen million dollars.”

At those words, my smile dies off, and blood rushes through my ear. I can’t have heard that right. “F—fif?—”

But he’s already walking away and barking orders at the staff, his assistant trailing him.

I rush after him. “Is there a name? The buyer. What’s the buyer’s name?”

“No name,” his brown-haired assistant, Veda, replies stiffly. “Why do you want to know anyway?”

Because I have a hunch as to who bought my paintings.

“To write them a thank you note or something,” I reply with a tight smile.

She huffs and begins to mutter something about looking too desperate, but I’m barely listening. My mind is stuck on the fact that my paintings are en route to the gorgeous, blue-eyed man’s house.

Even if I never see him again, just knowing he now owns a part of me is enough.

It has to be.

CHAPTER 3

Alessandro

Eleven years ago.

“I’m out of ammo, Ale.”

Ignoring Pasquale calling me that stupid nickname, I turn my head to see him waving his gun limply. He knows I don’t like it, and that’s exactly why he still uses it. Brothers are the most aggravating subspecies of humans.

I lean my head back and squeeze my eyes shut, my mind racing. “I have one bullet left.”

“I hope you’re saying your last prayer because I don’t see us making it out of this.”

“Shut up, Pas,” I snap. “We’re not dying. At least not here and not now. I’m thinking. Give me a minute.”

---