Page 14 of Painted in Sin

"I told you, lady, Winslow is out. I'm taking this case, and you'll give me that painting or I'll make sure you and your precious artwork never see the light of day again." He leans forward as he reaches into his coat, and I feel like he's going to pull out a gun. I want to run, but between the shrubs, the building, and the bench, I'm hedged in. Instead of a weapon, the man pulls out his phone, flashing the screen at me. It's an image of the inside of my apartment, one of my originals hanging on the wall there.

"What?" I mutter, my hand floating to my lips.

"I said, the painting is mine now. Hand it over and nothing will happen to you." His eyes narrow on me, and at the same time,both of us hear a noise. My head jerks toward the sound of it—the back door of the restaurant closing. It's Victor, and he doesn't look pleased to see this man so close to me. "Three days, lady," the man says, and he walks off before Victor can reach us.

Now trembling more than I was before, I tuck myself into Victor's waiting arms and shake as he wraps them around me. "Who was that?" he asks. His voice rumbles into my whole being, causing me to feel safer immediately, but to what end? This man is every bit as dangerous as the one who just confronted me, if not more.

"The man… He…" I can't form words to tell him what happened. How could I? Tell him his painting is at risk of being stolen by a dirty Interpol agent, if that man is even an agent at all? My mind races as I continue to shake. I need to get the word to Matthias somehow that someone is pushing to get that Raphael from the inside, someone who works with him.

"Let me take you home," Victor says calmly. It's the most comforting his voice has ever been to me, but I'm not sure I want to go there. That man has been into my home. He's seen my paintings, violated my sense of safety.

"I can't. Take me to a hotel. That man, he had pictures of my apartment. He's been there." I don’t know if I'm making much sense, but Victor tenses and his embrace stiffens. The way his arms tighten around me is alarming at first, then reassuring.

"He's been in your apartment?" he asks, and I nod. "This is about the Raphael, then?" Again, I nod. I don't want to go into detail because I'm not sure what I can even say to him right now. I don't know who's safe anymore.

"I'll take you to my place," Victor says sternly, and I feel him turning my body. I want to protest the move, but he's very strong. I can't resist his movement.

"A hotel is fine." My feet are heavy as we walk toward the parking lot. I see his driver pulling the limo around, but the man is gone. Marco Gallo. I have to remember that name.

"If they can get into your apartment, they can get into a hotel. Now you're staying with me, and that's final. I dragged you into this, and you'll be safer under my watch." The limo pulls up and he opens the door. I don't want to go with him. I want to go home, to feel safe again, but I know I have no choice.

Victor is right. He dragged me into this mess, and while I don’t think Nicola could get into my apartment without me there, that Interpol jerk did. There are probably a hundred art thieves and smugglers in this city looking to track me down and get to the painting. I didn't ask for this target on my back, but it's there. It's only right for Victor to be the one to protect me until the whole thing is over.

So I climb in and remain silent the whole ride. Victor is on the phone making calls. Apparently, to some men with the Policia who probably sit right in his back pocket. Men like that can't stop Nicola either. I need Matthias—which reminds me to search for my phone. I find it jammed into the crack of the leather cushion and pull it out, immediately dialing Matthias's number, and it goes to voicemail straightaway.

The ride is short. Victor ends his calls when we pull through the gates of a massive property. The car rolls up a concrete drive past rows of grapevines and shrubbery illuminated by overhead lights. The house in the distance has the charm of a mid-centuryvilla, but it's massive too—easily the largest home I've ever seen with my own eyes.

"This is where you live?" I ask, gawking. My hand presses against the glass, forehead millimeters away as my breath fogs the window. I'm mesmerized.

Victor snorts and grunts, "Yes. My home… Wait until you see the inside." His tone almost feels like a chuckle, but I glance at him and see a deadpan look. I wonder if the man ever smiles about anything.

And he's right.

Inside the house is more impressive than the drive up the long, winding driveway. The front entryway is all marble. A large fountain with a reproduction of the David seated in the middle of it dominates the foyer. Winding staircases hug the walls, circling around to rise to the second floor. Light streams from rooms to the left and the right, a living room and what appears to be an office, and straight ahead is what I can only describe as a ballroom—probably a formal dining room without the table.

The Persian rugs in all rooms match, taxidermy of rare exotic animals on the walls, and the Howard Miller grandfather clock along the wall on the far side catches my eyes. But nothing prepares me for what I see hanging on the walls everywhere.

Artwork…

Gorgeous, expensive artwork from all centuries. Some I can see are reproductions right away, but the Jackson Pollock is definitely authentic. I remember it sold for seventy million at auction—I just had no clue it was the Costa family who bought it.

"You look impressed," he says as I walk away, eyes wide, jaw hanging loose.

"Impressed…" I repeat as I walk over to a painting that appears to be an authentic Monet. I would love to call my friend in Paris to have this authenticated, but for now I'm awestruck. "Victor, these paintings have to be worth more than your entire house."

"I told you, you'll be safe here." His voice is devoid of compassion, as if I’m an object to be put under lock and key and not a priceless human life. The art alone is enough to charm me, so when I turn to see him looking at me and not these precious works, I feel my cheeks flush.

"Isabella, tell me what you know about that Raphael." He strides over to me and stands in front of me as he undoes his tie and stares at me.

I think for a moment of ignoring what's happening, continuing my intended course of turning in the Raphael and passing off my forgery to Victor. If the reward I've heard of is legitimate, it may be enough to help me relocate, start over somewhere else. Matthias could get me a new identity. I could live in Paris or Milan, paint my own works.

But the sincerity in his eyes, the way he protected me after that strange interaction with that man… I can't help but see the human side of him. He's not got a gun to my head demanding answers. He wants to know the truth about something he believes belongs to him, and I have answers to his questions.

"My former boyfriend is an art thief." I have to start where it all began. I can't skip ahead to the parts he's asking me. If I do, he'll only dig deeper anyway. I walk along the wall, away from him, staring up at one beautiful painting after another. "He's after theRaphael, and some people think he's the best person for the job." I think that too. I know what Nicola is all about.

"Nicola Vitale?" he asks, and I turn to him in curiosity for a moment, but it doesn't surprise me that he knows Nicola. They're in the same dangerous line of work.

I nod and continue. "He wants the Raphael to cash in on the reward, or maybe to fence it himself. It's all about money with him. Nothing more."

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