Page 2 of Painted in Sin

"Have I?" I ask, turning to face him. He's a charming man, but being out of the public view is a bit uncomfortable. He can't do anything to me here, and I don't fear that he will, but if Nico finds out I'm not following his rules, I'll never hear the end of it.

"Yes," Victor says, taking my glass. He sets it on the stand next to the sculpture before taking my hand and bringing it to his lips again. I've never met a man so forward about his intentions, and it's not unappealing. My belly sizzles with arousal as he kisses up my inner arm to my elbow, then looks at me as he drapes my arm over his shoulder. "Care to share a dance?"

The music is a waltz,Valse Triste, and before I can consent, he pulls me in and we're dancing. He's graceful, gentle, and I follow his lead as he spins me around. No doubt, the camera catches the hint of my dress's skirt as it twirls out when he spins me. Ifeel lighter than air, and he tugs me back against his body, this time pressing his hand in my back hard so we're joined from shoulders to knees. There is a hard bulge that rubs my thigh, and I shudder at his arousal.

"Mr. Costa, I am working," I say, feeling flustered but attracted. "And Mr. Giani will?—"

"Giani won't miss you for one moment." Costa's hand slides over the curve of my ass and squeezes as he forces me closer. His lips are close enough to mine that he could steal a kiss, but his eyes study my face instead. "Are you saying you're uncomfortable with me?"

"Not at all," I offer quickly. Damn, I want him to kiss me. I want him to more than kiss me. This is so sexy, the way he takes charge, the way he makes known what he wants.

"Good, then you won't mind if I keep you here a moment longer?" Victor's lips brush over mine, and I'm undone. I can't breathe. I can't think.

I'm a struggling artist who grew up in the slums of Florence and paid my way through art school working a job as a barista and selling my paintings to eke out a living and scrape by until Nico offered me this job. A man like this could have any woman he wants, and he's put his bullseye on me. Hell no, I don't feel uncomfortable here.

"If you wish," I tell him, not sure how to answer. I feel his hand reach between our bodies, thinking he's preparing to touch me in places that will make my body zing with pleasure, and just as I let my eyes flutter shut in hopes that his lips will caress mine again, the gallery alarm sounds.

My eyes snap open again and my hands rise to his chest, splaying there. I push away. I've got to go find out what's happening, but Costa's hand is stronger, pinning me to his chest. I struggle, narrowing my eyes, feeling frantic.

"What's happening? Oh, my God, let me go."

The hardness between us is gone, just his body against mine now, and I'm confused as something cold presses into my ribcage. "Ms. De Luca, I'm going to need you to remain very calm for me." Costa has a gun jammed into my side, eyes dark again. "And I'm going to ask you not to scream."

"Oh ,God," I mutter, swallowing every bit of shame that floods me. I'm an idiot. There is no good reason on God's green Earth that this man would ever want me, and here I am in a camera blind spot in this gallery on a night we have millions of dollars’ worth of paintings on display. Nico is going to kill me.

"God has nothing to do with this, honey. But it would be a sin if I didn't at least try to explain…" He smirks, jams the gun into my side harder. I hear shrieks and gasps. Security is shouting. I hear Paolo's voice directing people to stay calm, and I can’t look away from this demon's possessive eyes. They still capture every bit of my attention.

"You see, right now, someone is attempting to steal one of those beautiful paintings this gallery has on display. They have silicon fingerprints lifted from the champagne glass you drank from earlier this evening, and if you don't do exactly as I say, they will make sure you are the one who goes down for this attempted theft."

My stomach sours. Bile rises in my throat, and I try to push away from him again. "You can't do this. I'll lose my job. I'll loseeverything." Who does this man think he is? And why is he doing this?

"You work for me now, sweetheart. Let's make that clear." He leans in and lets the tip of his nose trail up the side of my neck, breathing me in with one deep inhale. Then he whispers in my ear, "And the job I need you to do for me is the most important thing you will ever do. Do you understand?"

With the gun in my side, his strong arm capturing me, I have no choice but to nod. I'm whimpering, scared shitless, but I nod.

"Good. Now, let's dance," he says, and he spins me around as my heart pounds in my chest. Who is Victor Costa and why couldn't he just ask me to work for him the polite way, without guns or threats? And why would he want to frame me for art theft?

I don’t have a good feeling about this at all.

2

VICTOR

The restaurant is buzzing with activity this evening despite the late hour, the low murmur of voices blending with the clinking of plates and glasses. The air smells of garlic and roasting meat, thick with the warmth of rich sauces and fresh-baked bread. Our table is tucked in the corner, shadowed by a large marble column, offering just enough privacy for a conversation that’s anything but casual.

My father sits across from me, the man who’s made it all possible—who’s shaped everything I’ve become. His presence looms over everything, even when he’s silent. To even breathe his name is to understand fear to most people in Rome. To his right is the fence, a man with a thin face and jittery hands, constantly scanning the room like a rat in a trap.

"The deal is good, Mr. Costa." His hands shake as he tucks the rolled canvas into the long plastic tube and wrestles the cap onto it. The canvas strap to hang it from his shoulder is unassuming for such an expensive work, but had it been one of the Raphaels, I'd have insisted on something more fitting. This man knows what he's doing, though.

"Very well, then," my father says. His fingers curl around the glass in front of him and he drinks deeply of the dark red wine we've been enjoying. Our meal is mostly finished, only a few things left to wrap up. Like payment.

"You know Interpol has been watching for that painting." Even the fence won't mention the Raphael we have tucked away in the back room of this restaurant. He calls it "that painting" like it's diseased or carrying some sort of curse, but it's a family heirloom that if real, will restore some note of hierarchy to the Costa name stolen from us years ago.

"'That painting' is worth more than your breath, Antony, so shut your yap." I narrow my eyes at him and his presumption that he is permitted to speak casually. It gives him a start, and he clings to the stolen Pollock like it's a life preserver.

My father's fingertips lift from the table in a gesture meant to calm me, and I relax back into the booth behind the marble pillar and allow him to speak.

"I'm sure you have your ears to the ground, Antony. Tell us, what exactly is Interpol looking for?" His fingers steeple and he leans over the table. The fence glances at me nervously, preferring to speak to my father instead of me, which is comical to me. Emilio Costa is the most dangerous criminal in Rome. I'm just his protégé, his son.

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