Page 12 of Painted in Sin

And then there's the meeting with Matthias I missed. But there are no missed calls from him. If he were going to meet me and I wasn't there, I'd have thought he'd have called to ask where I was and when we could reschedule. But there's nothing. Not even a blip.

Leaving the water to warm up, I strip off the soiled dress and throw it in the trash. I'll never wear it again. And the panties? They're torn, useless to me now. They go in the trash too, and I walk to my bedroom to pull out a nightgown and clean underwear for when I'm done showering. As I do, the pink cover of my spiral-bound journal peeks out at me.

For the past five years, I've done nothing but investigate claims from conspiracy theorists about Raphael’s works. In my world, it's not enough to know about the art itself. I have to know the lore, the reasons Raphael painted his works, where he was, the secrets behind them, and the people who commissioned him to paint them.

I've heard stories about a few of the paintings having used blood in the paint, "the blood of the martyrs," some people call it. As if Raphael murdered poor, innocent souls to create forbidden works or himself shed blood to protect his art. And I've heard things about this lost Raphael too—things I know Costa would flip over if he knew.

The journal calls to me, despite the running shower hissing out steam that beckons me. I pick up the journal and flip open the pages, turning them until I find what I'm looking for. From everything I've observed, there is nothing extraordinary about the painting other than being an original Raphael. The paint is just that—paint. There’s no blood, no evidence of murder, though there is a great deal of evidence externally that a theft occurred. It has Nicola's name all over it, but I can't see how he'd have gotten to it weeks ago when he was supposed to be in prison.

But it isn't the painting that the lore speaks of. The frame is said to have been swapped in the mid-nineteen hundreds, traded for a hollow one that houses uncut diamonds dug from the mines in Siberia in the late eighteen hundreds and housed in an unnamed Russian consulate in Glasgow.

How much of it is true stands to be proven yet, but I have my doubts. Still, these doodles of diamonds scrawled on my private journal next to notes about Raphael will only show Costa my thoughts, and if he wises up and searches this place, he's likely to figure out what may be so special about it.

I tear out the pages and put the journal back, crumpling them and carrying them to the bathroom with me. The water is so hot the entire bathroom is filled with steam, the mirror and window fogged up. I toss the crumpled paper into the toilet and flush it,then drop my clothing onto the vanity next to the sink and step under the flow of water.

I let Nicola suck me into a deadly ring of art forgers and thieves and it almost cost me my life. Now he's back, and he's not going to give up until he gets what he wants. I wasn't supposed to be a part of his scheme before. He came to me and we fell in love, and I saw the world in his eyes. He loved art and was passionate about the classics. We once flew all the way to the Kremlin to see a Rembrandt on display.

But it was too good to be true.

The water attempts to relax away my tension, but I can't shake the fear. Wine helps more. I down the glass and skip it from there, drinking straight from the bottle now. It stays with me in the shower as I wrestle over what to do next.

Nicola got me to forge that DaVinci as a means to protect it from thieves who would come along to steal it. It's apparently a pretty common con—convince the art curator or gallery owner that a lift is going to happen, then hire an artist to fake the painting. When it's not on display, the painting is vulnerable, under less scrutiny with fewer protections. The thief then lifts the real painting, leaving the forgery, or in my case, they lifted both, and I was pinned in the crime.

Matthias was the only one to believe I'd had the best intention—to protect the original. I lost my job at the museum and nearly my life when Nicola slipped out after his arraignment and nearly strangled me. Policia caught him and threw him in the clink, and I've been living on edge ever since.

Maybe forging the Raphael isn't the right thing. Maybe I should just give Matthias the original intact in the frame. But if VictorCosta finds out I've given his painting to Interpol, I'm sure he won't be happy. He's already put a gun in my side once. he won't hesitate to off me without blinking.

So now I have an even worse problem.

Not only am I running the same scheme I nearly fell for before, but two men want the real thing and all I want is to get out of this alive. I dry off and call Matthias, but he doesn’t answer. It goes straight to voicemail. I want to meet him at the gallery now, tonight. Give him the painting and be free of this entire thing. Maybe he can help me skip town, find some place safe to lie low until the dust settles.

But he's not picking up, and the more I drink, the more tired I get until I pass out with my phone in my hand, towel still draped around my torso, eyes heavy with wine.

If I get out of this alive, I promise myself I'm moving to Japan or Canada. Somewhere far away from here where no one can find me. And I'm never looking at another Raphael again.

10

VICTOR

The decision whether to offload this painting hasn't been made, but when my father calls a meeting with Antony, I don't have a choice. I sit across from him next to a very flustered Ms. De Luca, who seems to not fully understand the concept of inconspicuousness. The private booth is meant to disguise the meeting we're having, but it can't do anything for her mannerisms or posture.

"Now, you'll see, Mr. Costa, that we have a few really interested parties." Antony slides a few slips of paper across the table to me—profiles of buyers who are highly interested in the Raphael should I choose to sell it. Of course I'll never sell the original, but a forgery? That's still on the table.

I saw the excellent work Isabella did to fake the painting, though she doesn't know I've caught on to her. At least, she doesn't seem to let on that she knows. When I saw it out of the frame, it was the first thing I thought, and there was no mistaking the smell of paint in the air and the glistening of the fresh paint on the canvas. She is a tricky little minx. I'll give her that. Butmy sources have told me that painting is still in the gallery somewhere. I wonder if Nico Giani knows where it is.

"These are interesting numbers, but they're low." One glance at the offers being presented to me and I laugh in his face. Isabella cranes her neck over my shoulder as if to see the numbers. She alone should be proof enough to this fence that the painting is authentic, despite knowing the forgery is the one I will be presenting to him. He doesn't know that. All he knows is Isabella De Luca is the foremost expert in the world and she's sitting next to me saying the artwork is authentic.

"Do you realize what you're turning down? What would your father say? He has what he wants." Antony never challenges me—except when my father puts him up to it, and right now, I'm dead certain this is the work of Emilio Costa and his obsession with the frame.

I look at Isabella. Her face is pale but set. Even she knows this offer isn't that great. Four million dollars American isn't close to the thirteen it's valued at and I won't take a penny less. In fact, once I figure out what the hell is going on in that frame I plan to X-ray, I'll probably be upping that number substantially.

"What do you say?" I ask her, and she presses her lips into a thin line as she looks over the offers. Her hands sort through the sheets of paper, spreading them on the empty table. We're not here to eat. We're here to do business. Though, if it were up to me, I'd have her spread on this table devouring her when we're through here.

"Well…" Her slight pause for emphasis seems to annoy Antony. He scowls and purses his lips as he flicks a glance at me. "I can say with a certainty that the painting Mr. Costa brought to thegallery for me to authenticate is the real Raphael. It was sold in?—"

"Spare me the history lesson, sweetheart." Antony is being brisque and downright rude. I curl my fingers into a fist to avoid doing something very stupid in such a public place, but I tip my chin up, narrowing my eyes at him to send a message.

"Mr. D'Angelo, let me remind you that Ms. De Luca is the foremost authority on Raphael and you will speak in a more respectful tone, or we'll take a walk to my office in the back and I'll cut your tongue out and let you drown in your own blood. Do I make myself clear?" My threat isn't empty, either. I reach with my opposite hand to the silverware wrapped in a thick black cloth napkin and roll it out, exposing the steak knife.

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