Page 31 of Painted in Sin

"I understand," he says. “You've been through a lot…" His gaze drops to my lips, and I’m caught in the web of his intense stare. "But please know that you could have so much more, be so much more." I like the way his hand holds mine, cradling it like a treasure, but it’s not enough. Great sex, charming personality, and buckets of money aside, Victor has to offer me more than the assurance that I’m headed for a lifetime of crime if I’m with him.

I swallow hard, feeling the heat creep into my cheeks. "I have a career to think about," I remind him, ducking my head.

A waiter arrives to take our orders, offering us menus and pouring water into crystal glasses while we peruse what's on offer. The scents of garlic and herbs fill the dining room. I can almost taste the richness of the flavors that haunt the air. It’s a welcome distraction from the conversation.

I can’t be with him and hope for a pot dream of making something out of myself by throwing myself into the art. Authenticating and appraising art is what I’m good at. It's what my father wanted for me. It’s what I have to do to survive. Victor’s life and mine have collided, but they don’t run parallel. I’m headed in a different direction. I have to be.

He orders first, then me—seafood on a bed of greens with buttery sauce and orzo. I’m too nervous to eat, thinking about everything I’ve learned. That my father had ties to this legend long before I ever came to find out about it, that Matthias knew how my father died and says it’s not just accidental, either.

I can’t fully trust Victor. I want to. My God, do I want to let my heart feel safe and free to unburden itself, but he’s just as much of a criminal as Nicola was. I don't see a path forward for Victor that doesn’t include crime, and if I am with him, I'll be tangled up in it forever.

Instead of unburdening myself of my fears and suspicions of my past, however, I ask, “What’s the endgame, Victor?” There it is. I've blurted it out before I could censor myself. The truth on my tongue is like a slap across the face. “What are you going to do with the painting and frame? What happens when you align the two side by side and read the map and find that treasure?”

Victor leans back in his chair, considering my question over a slow sip of wine. His eyes are sensuous over the rim of the glass stem as he swirls the red liquid before taking another sip. He looks at me steadily, his gaze darkening. "The endgame," he begins, setting down the glass, "is to transform my family's business into something legitimate. My father spent his entire life working the streets, making connections, building an empire based on illegal activities. I want to change that."

I don't believe him at first. Not because I think he's lying but because it seems too… sincere. "You really want to go straight?" I ask skeptically.

He nods, his jaw set in determination. "I do," he vows softly. "I know it sounds like a fairy tale, but I want my children to have a different life than I did. A life without looking over their shoulders or wondering if they'll end up in prison like their father." He reaches for his water glass then, taking a long drink as if to steady himself before looking back at me again. "My plan is to use the diamonds from the frame and invest them wisely so we can turn our resources toward change. I believe the answer lies in what’s been hidden from me, and when I find it, I want you by my side, Bella.”

My heart flutters at his words, and I can't deny that part of me wants to believe him. But the other part, the more practical side of me, wonders how someone like me—an art specialist with no interest in crime or conquests—could ever fit into his world. I push away my wine glass untouched, unable to stomach alcohol when my gut has tied up in knots over this conversation.

"I wish things could be different," I whisper, knowing I’ve already decided to send the painting back to where Matthias says it belongs—the museum in Belgium. Victor will get the forgery and his precious frame, which he will find is far morevaluable to him than the canvas ever will be, and I will be off the hook. No more thieves hunting me, no Interpol knocking on my door. All of this will be behind me and I can move forward with my plan to establish myself as the only expert on Raphael. "I'm sorry," I say softly. The words taste like ash in my mouth, but they need to be said.

His eyes darken, and there’s obvious disappointment in his demeanor. “I see,” he says quietly. But even as he seems discouraged by my lack of faith in him or interest in his dreams, something deeper stirs in me. A sense of longing that won’t be quelled by a change in circumstances or a new beginning away from him. He may not be what’s best for me, but being near him feels like coming home after years away—warm, familiar, right where I belong.

"Bella," he begins again, his tone softer now. I look up at him from where I've been studying the tablecloth, seeing the regret etched into those handsome features. "I understand if you can't trust me, but what if there were something more between us? Something good we shouldn’t pass up?" He leans forward, resting his elbows on the tabletop as if to emphasize how serious he is about this question. His intensity unnerves me but also makes my pulse quicken.

Do I see the possibility of something between us? More than just passion and excitement? As much as I want to believe in fairy tales, it seems too farfetched for someone like me—a woman who’s content with her life as it is while longing for more adventure than she can possibly have surrounded by priceless artwork all day, every day. Still, Victor's intensity draws me in like a moth to a flame, even though I know full well how dangerous it can be. With him, anything seems possible, even love.

He scoots closer, closing in on me like a predator. I don’t back away because I'm not afraid of him. What I'm afraid of is losing myself. I'm already halfway there.

"Bella, don't run from me. Let me show you it can be good…" His hand reaches up and cradles my cheek, and his eyes lock on mine. The thickness in the air between us is physically palpable. I crave him, long for his lips on mine and for all of his attention to focus on me, as scary and terrifying as that is for my future, and I have to stop myself. I cannot be with this man, not for all the riches and treasures in the world.

When his lips brush over mine, I give in temporarily, soaking in the moment and his affection. His power and class, charm and authority—they are the wind in my sails, the pulse of life inside me, and I revel in the sensation of his tongue against mine, the rush of chemistry and adrenaline I feel. But I pull away, looking him in the eye.

"Please excuse me for one moment," I whisper. If I stay here close to him, I'm going to cave. I'll believe his false hopes and follow him like a sheep follows its shepherd. If I put space between us, my mind will again inform my heart that the right thing is to walk away from him.

Victor nods, and as I drop my napkin on the table and rise, my right hand covers my left wrist, fingering the bracelet. I walk calmly toward the bathrooms, already breathing fresher, purer air. I resolve to finish this dinner with class and cut ties with Victor once and for all. He can pick up the painting and frame from the gallery if his assertions about Mr. Gallo were incorrect and it doesn't get stolen this evening. And I will ship the tube with the authentic Raphael back to the museum where it belongs.

I have to.

My head feels clearer after I splash cold water on my face. I wash my hands, staring at hollow eyes in the mirror and wondering why I ever let myself get sucked in by Victor. He's charming, handsome, and smart. He's honestly everything I would want in a man, but the shadow over his life—his dark passenger—makes it impossible for me to be with him, even if my heart is a raging inferno of love for him.

I leave the bathroom with every intent to sit down at the table and eat my food and let Victor take me home, but fate has other plans.

I slam into the firm, broad chest of Marco Gallo, who looks very unhappy to see me as he clamps a hand over my mouth and begins dragging me to the back door growling into my ear, "I know it's a fucking forgery, bitch. Now give me the real Raphael or I'm gonna slit your throat."

This can't be happening. It's not supposed to go this way.

26

VICTOR

Iwatch Isabella walk away and I still feel the sting of her words. She feels something deeply for me that she is warring with. I could see it in her eyes when she forced that kiss to end and excused herself. I'm not sure if it's fear of being close to me, letting her heart get hurt again, or if it really is the darkness that swirls around my life.

I'm no saint, and I never presented myself as one to her. From our first meeting she knew the kind of man I am, the man I've grown to hate. Being around her has brought out the best in me, the man who loves art, who treasures relationships and family. I've seen through her eyes beyond the guns and drugs and money. I see a path forward for myself for the first time in my life that isn’t about the next score or defending my territory. I see hope.

She disappears around the corner, and I check my phone to see if there are any messages from Rocco and the guys, but all is quiet. Sipping my wine, I think of how I can finally show Isabella once and for all that nothing means more to me than the true path laid out in front of us. The one where we both are free tochase our true passions—the art and the richness of love bound together by it.

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