Page 6 of Painted in Sin

ISABELLA

My brush lifts from the canvas in the final stroke, the last touch to the newly forged artwork that will pass as the original Raphael—at least, hopefully long enough for me to get the real one to Matthias. Currently, it's rolled up and safely tucked in a humidified tube in my staff locker behind my padlock where no one will suspect it. I only hope this painting I've just finished will convince everyone who needs to look at it under scrutiny that it is the original Raphael.

My hands are dirty, my hair mussed. I've used acrylics instead of oils, though a bit of linseed gives the paint the same glimmer that oil has when it dries. I pack up all my things and stash them away, leaving the painting hanging stretched on the easel next to the frame. It's not common to take a painting out of a frame to authenticate it, but anyone who is in the know about that will never see this particular painting out of the frame at all.

Moving to the washroom to scrub up, I leave the painting to air dry. It will take around twenty minutes for the final strokes to be fully set and dry, and in that time, I can have a cup of tea and prepare what I might say to Mattias about the real one whenhe comes. He's due for a visit this evening to pick up the real Raphael and take it to Interpol headquarters, and after his little warning about Nicola being out of prison and on the hunt for revenge, it's a good thing. I can't be caught off guard carrying the real painting around Rome.

When I'm clean and headed back to the workstation to check the paint and see if it's dry, I pull my phone from my pocket. I want Matthias to come sooner rather than later. The more swiftly I handle the handoff to him, the better. If Mr. Giani finds out I've swapped a real Raphael for a forgery and given the stolen, long-lost painting to the authorities, I may lose my job. After seeing that many guns when Costa delivered it here, I can only imagine what pressure he put on my boss to keep the painting secure.

But before I can dial Matthias's number, the gallery door swings open. I'm here alone. The place is locked up, secured by reinforced steel doors, triple locks, high-tech security with biometrics, and in walks Victor Costa like he owns the place. Not only am I shocked to the point that I drop my phone, but instant fear shoots through me.

"Mr. Costa," I stammer out, backing up a few steps. My instant thought is the painting, how it's out of the frame, stretched on an easel as if I've been working on it. My paints are cleaned up, brushes washed, but the hint of paint fumes in the air will tip him off if I'm not careful. "What are you doing here?'

He strolls toward me with one hand in his pocket and a gleam in his eye. His gaze is focused on me, not the glass walls of my workspace which separate us from his painting. He drinks me in, eyes sweeping down over my paint-splattered slacks and black apron. I'm a mess tonight, and I feel very unnerved by the way he looks at me like a piece of meat to devour.

"Isn't it obvious, Isabella? I've come to check on my painting. It's been six days. I've expected a call from you." His wrist turns outward, hand rotating as his fingers extend. The tattoos on his knuckles are very apparent this evening, and I wonder if I missed them the last few times he was here or if I was too focused on his addictive smile.

I swallow hard and feel for the table behind me, inching away from him as he advances. He looks good this evening, jacket open, tie removed. The top few buttons of his shirt are even open, exposing some skin that only tempts me to wonder what his chest looks like under that shirt. It's another twenty-thousand-dollar suit too, something more expensive than the fucking car I drive, but fuck, does he look good in it.

None of that, however, detracts from how terrifying the man is. He literally held a gun to my side and joked with me about it. His men lifted a genuine Pollock from this very gallery—God knows where they're holding it if they even still have it—and threatened to frame me personally for the theft if I don't comply. The forgery is good, too—but not as good as my work is.

"It's good," I choke out, still stunned into near silence by his arrival. How did he even get in here? Did Giani give him a fucking key and add his thumb print to the biometrics scanner? "Uh, how did you…" I scrunch my nose and shake my head. "I thought I locked up."

He nods, raising his eyebrows, ever the serious one. Not even cracking a smile, he says, "I have my ways, sweet Bella." His hand rises and gestures at the door to my workspace as he says, "Shall we?"

I nod nervously, avoiding eye contact as I turn and push the door to my workspace open. He follows close on my heels as if heknows something is awry, like he's hidden a camera in this place to know I've forged a new version of his precious painting. I've had a look at the frame, and while there are several anomalies—likely someone having broken and repaired it in the past—there is definitely no hidden camera there.

In fact, I've scrutinized it thoroughly because I've heard things—secret things that may be dangerous to the wrong person if they knew I heard them. The frame itself may be worth more than the painting to the right buyer, but it's not the frame Matthias will be interested in. And I can't forge a frame. I'm an artist, not a woodworker.

I gesture stiffly at the painting, inwardly wincing at the condition. It's dry now, but I haven't even gotten a chance to inspect it, let alone reframe it. And now that I take another glance at it, I see my signature isn't quite the same as Raphael's.

"Here it is," I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

Victor narrows his eyes at me and then walks toward the painting with curious eyes, sliding both hands in his pockets. "You've removed it from the frame?" he asks, flicking a stormy glance in my direction. I hold a steady gaze, not giving away my truths so easily as he leans in close and examines the upper right corner. "My father loves that frame."

I clear my throat before answering, sure that if I speak without doing that, my voice will crack and I'll give my nerves away.

I wonder where his men are now, the burly ones with thick biceps and automatic guns to intimidate me. There's no doubt in my mind that he isn't here alone. They're probably in the car waiting, or just inside the gallery, scoping out the joint. Tomorrow, I'll go to security and tell them how he walked in onme, ask to review the tape of the closed circuit recording. Maybe that will shed some light on how he got in without a key.

"I sometimes remove the painting from the frame for closer inspection. In this case, the frame is quite burdensome and heavy. My assistant helped me remove it to have a closer examination, but don't worry. We will stretch it again and you'll never know it was removed." My words come out stiffer and more professional than I'd like them to, but in this man's presence, what else can I do?

He straightens and turns the full force of his gaze on me. It warms my body to my core, swirls of attraction pooling in my belly as he says, "And have you authenticated it?" His gaze is skeptical, eyes narrowed, but he waits for my professional opinion which I can give truthfully without need of a poker face.

"In my professional opinion, the painting you brought to me for authentication is the original Raphael, painted in the early fifteen hundreds in the region near Urbino. He was likely in his early twenties, as the brushstrokes here are heavier, indicative of his formative years when he was still perfecting his craft." I point at my own painting, not even a hint of guilt as I say, "The flesh tones are nearly translucent, as is normal with his works, and the robust use of colors is?—"

"Fantastic!" Victor says, clapping his hands once and clasping them in front of himself. "Then you’ll join me for dinner to celebrate."

"What? No," I gasp, shaking my head. "You said I have to authenticate your painting, and I did. It's real, Mr. Costa. That's all I can offer you." My mind races, pulse quickly climbing to well over a hundred beats a minute. I feel a heady spin of anxiety and adrenaline mingle the back of my mind as he leans in, usinga single pinky to brush some hair off my eyebrow and tuck it behind my ear.

"Let me remind you of the Jackson Pollock we have, Ms. De Luca… Bella—may I call you that?" he asks but continues without my answering. "I'd hate for you to fall into any bit of trouble over this." His tongue clicks and he moves closer, hand resting on my hip. "Besides, we had such a lovely dance a few weeks ago. It'd be a shame not to see where that chemistry leads. Plus, we have to wait until it's time to move the painting the way we'd like."

Backing away, he takes my breath with him. I stand there gripping the marble work table behind me, wondering how the hell I'm supposed to get out of this. I'm not dating a criminal again, not even if he forces me to do it. But I know somewhere under that suit, he has a weapon. He may not have an army with him, but it only takes one bullet.

"Mr. Costa, I'm just an artist. I'm not on the market to be bought and sold like these paintings." My gaze falters as I meet his eyes and see the strong desire in them. He's not asking me to dinner. I am dinner.

"Get your jacket, Ms. De Luca. We'll stop by your place so you can put on something suitable." He walks to the door and opens it, not taking no for an answer, and I glance at the Raphael with a whimper of a prayer. If St. Francis is real, perhaps he'll look over me while I do this one thing. I can't fight this man and I'm here alone. It's better to go along with him than for him to force me.

Quickly snatching my jacket, I follow him through the studio into the gallery, shutting off lights as we move. I lock doors, engage the biometric scanners, and glance at the cameras. The normally red blinking lights are dark. It means he disarmedthem somehow, which means none of this is even going to be on the recordings—even more of a chance for him to frame me for something sinister.

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