Page 27 of Painted in Sin

When my breathing returns to normal, I'm limp in his arms, drowsy and sated. I lean against his chest as he undoes his belt and pulls his dick out. He’s rock hard, stroking himself as I straighten and unbutton his shirt, and when his skin is exposed to me, I lavish it in kisses. I can’t help myself. I am in love with this man who represents everything evil I’m supposed to abhor.

I run my tongue along the ridges of his abs, teasing him further, not that he needs teasing. He's already on edge, as evidenced by the small drops of precum at the tip of his engorged cock. He moves closer, and I guide him to my entrance. His head slips through my moisture, sinking into me as he thrusts forward. I am more than ready for him, and he plunges deep into my depths, our bodies melding together as if we were made for each other.

His breathing becomes ragged, his face a mask of ecstasy, and in that moment, I feel more connected to him than anyone else in the world. We move together, matching each other's thrusts and moans, him inside me and me around him like we were meant to be. Victor grabs my hips and slams into me again and again, his body slapping against mine as we writhe against the desk. I can't hold back my cries as another orgasm builds. He gruntsand groans, his hand gripping me so tightly I might bruise, but all I can feel is the heat between my thighs, the fire he ignites within me.

Our coupling becomes frantic, desperate, primal as we both approach the edge of release. And then it hits me again—wave after wave of pleasure washing over me as I clench around him, and he roars my name as he spills his seed inside me. His thrusts slow, and his lips cover mine in a deep kiss as his cock pulses and my tremors settle.

This time is different, the way he touches me, the way he holds me. I'm undone by how caring he seems, and maybe I'm letting myself believe things I shouldn't, but somehow, I trust him when he says he wants something different for both of us. I have to. It's the only way out of this for me. I'm not sure Matthias Winslow is ever coming back to help me. I'm either with Victor Costa or I'm on my own, and I don't like the sound of that.

22

VICTOR

The television mounted above the stone hearth outside on my father's patio blares the news. I sit with him at his wrought iron table sipping a mimosa after finishing a hearty breakfast with him. He insisted I come give a report on the Raphael after a lecture on "handling my business" professionally. The Raphael is still at the gallery where it belongs, agreed upon by myself and Mr. Giani in exchange for Isabella's time. Besides, there is no safer place right now.

"I told you, if we attempt transport of the painting right now, we're fools. With that idiot on the loose, nothing is safe." I sip from the stemware and eye the newscast calmly. A tickertape scrolls across the bottom of the screen giving the latest updates in the "art heist" they're talking about. Nothing more than Nicola Vitale getting what he deserves.

"You mean to tell me you can't protect a five-hundred-year-old painting?" His grumbles annoy me. It's like he’s forgotten what world we live in sometimes. His silver hair is telling, betraying his age and the underlying memory issues he's begun having recently.

"Papà, my agreement with Giani is firm and I'm a man of my word. He permitted me to use Ms. De Luca's knowledge and skill of Raphael and his artwork, and in exchange I offered to allow him to put the painting on display. The gallery’s security is top of the line." Besides the fact that I know she's probably got my real painting locked in a vault somewhere. "And if I were to carry that painting across town right now in this current climate, I'd risk an attack that may cost us a fortune, or perhaps lose the painting."

He swats at the air, silencing me, and reaches for the remote to turn the volume up as the news anchor begins talking about the fallen art thief.

"Authorities discovered the body of Mr. Nicola Vitale, a known criminal who escaped prison only a few weeks ago. He was shot in the back and as a result, succumbed to his injury. He is believed to have been involved in the heist gone wrong." The news caster narrows her eyes and purses her lips as she stares at the camera. "The painting involved, The Sister of Mourning, on display at a local gallery when it was stolen, was anonymously turned in. Authorities report having a tip on their hotline that the painting was found at the airport locked in a locker.

"The painting valued at over ten million dollars is now on its way back to the gallery to be checked, cleaned, and authenticated once again. While there is no report on the state of the painting, it is believed to be intact and secure. We'll have more on this story as news develops."

I reach for the remote and mute the news again, and my father shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. "That's the gallery you say is so safe? Safer than here at my home?" He squints and reaches for his mimosa as if it will offer some relief from the frustration scrawled across his forehead in deep crevices.

"Your painting is safe," I remind him sternly. Hearing the same damn frustrations and accusations over and over is beginning to wear on me. With everything going on surrounding this artwork, he has no room to be so angry with me. The secrets are mounting and I have every right to hear the truth from the source instead of wasting resources trying to hunt them up.

"It's not the painting I want, damn you." The anger in his tone is unmistakable. "I told you it's the frame that's the valuable part, and you're wasting your time on the damn painting." Now his eyes zero in on me with laser focus, and I'm not backing down this time.

"What, then? What's so important about this frame that you would disdain a thirteen-million-dollar painting that our ancestor had commissioned?" I sit forward, straightening. I'm going to force him to tell me what he knows once and for all. After Isabella confessed her fears about her father's death and its relation to my painting, along with her suspicions about the two frames, I know my father has to know something.

There are way too many people invested in the painting's recovery to blow all of this off and pretend it’s just rumors. Isabella is on to something. I can sense it. I told Rocco to forget about the X-ray machine because with her stories about the diamonds in the frame and my father's obsession, it pretty much confirms that's what is happening, but now that this new secret has come to light—a potential map to a greater fortune hidden away for my family… I think it's time my father fessed up.

He sits back, scrubbing a hand over his face, pinching his nose, then scratching his beard. He shifts, staring out over his patio and the attached in-ground pool. The breeze bends the tops of the pine trees that rim the yard, and he sighs as his eyes come back to focus on me.

"You know something about it?" he asks, but it's more of a statement than a question—almost an accusation.

"I do, and I want to know what you know. I want to know why you've not told me any of this." My hand sweeps across the table in a gesture of anger, but it doesn't seem to affect him. He is king for a while yet, but when he is gone, who will lead this family? If he hasn't brought me into his web of secrecy, how will I know what is real and what are lies?

A thoughtful look crosses his face, eyes glassed over as he stares out at the pool. "I'm sure you've heard of the diamonds hidden within the frame by now. There's little sense hiding it from you. That art lady is smart enough… But the real treasure isn't the painting at all. The frame is the answer. A map that reveals the location of something that will finally legitimize our operations, bring substance and importance to our family's affairs." His eyes meet mine. "I have to have that frame intact, Victor. It's the only thing that matters."

"You mean frames?" I ask, and his eyebrows tick up slowly then relax as realization dawns on him. He looks insulted and nods.

"Both of them," he confesses, giving merit to Isabella's suspicions. He's still keeping secrets from me even when I call them out, but now I've got the upper hand. I am more in control than even my own father when it comes to these paintings because of my position of influence with Isabella.

I would tell my father about her, about the two of us and my hopes for the future, but his only goal is his legacy and securing our family name. It's a noble thing, honorable, but he'll only see Isabella as a pawn in a game, a tool to use to get what he wants.

"I want this finished as quickly as possible, Victor, and I want those frames in this house." The stone gaze he casts in my direction would unnerve me if it weren't for the backbone I've grown over years of calling him Father.

"I'll handle it. Just stay out of my way. Things have to be done the right way or this thing will crumble. The people who stole the painting from your great-grandfather more than a century ago will only continue to come after it. We have to remove the root of the problem, not just cut off the head of the snake." I stand, dropping my napkin onto my empty plate, and finish my drink. "I'll be in touch," I tell him as I walk off his patio and into his house.

I have a corrupt Interpol agent to deal with, and only when I get to the bottom of who's behind him pulling strings will I feel safe to bring that painting home. Now I have to work more quickly, or my father will take matters into his own hands and risk losing the painting forever. And potentially put Isabella's life at risk again.

23

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