Page 13 of Painted in Sin

"Mr. Costa, I?—"

"That's right… Say my name again, you slithering reptile. Remember who I am. I don't care what my father said to you. I will gut you like the swine you are in a heartbeat. I am in charge here, and you do as I say. Now listen to Ms. De Luca's answer." I turn to her, and she is trembling, hand shaking as she lowers it to her lap, probably to hide the tremor.

"Well," she begins again, appearing even more nervous than before. "Given what I know, I value the painting between twelve and fourteen million dollars American." Her head dips. Her eyes rise to meet my gaze through her lashes. "I wouldn’t accept any less than twelve and a half."

Antony isn't convinced, but he won't say another idle word about her. I pull out my phone and open it to the photos app. There I've saved several very detailed images of the Raphael I know Isabella holds somewhere in that gallery—the real one, not theone she's brought printouts of to show him. I slide my phone across the table and nod at it.

"This is what we're talking about, Antony. You need to up your game. If she says twelve and a half, that's what I want, plus ten percent for my troubles. And before you refuse or say a fucking word about my father, remember who you're dealing with. You could be dead before you get to the door."

His eyes scan the image on my phone screen, and he slides to the right to see a few more. As a grunt of frustration rises, he looks up at Isabella and glowers at her. "If she puts her name on this, something substantial—her reputation—to say this is Bonafide, I'll raise the stakes. But your father isn't going to be happy."

His phone starts to ring, and he reaches into his inner breast pocket and pulls it out, holding a finger up to me as he rises. Antony slips out of the booth and walks away, and I'm left alone with a still-trembling woman. She reaches for her glass of wine and sips it, and I capture her hand and pull it to my lips to kiss her knuckles.

"Tell me, Bella, do you know why my father insists this painting is the throwaway portion? Why is the frame so valuable?" I scoot toward her. She squirms, downing the entire glass before setting it aside.

"Victor, I don't know anything." Her muttered words are hollow, cast at me quickly without thought. She looks away from my eyes. I see the way her eyes shift back and forth. She does know something but she's not coughing up information about it, which means my call to Rocco to search for an X-ray machine is probably the best choice I've made in this situation.

"I, uh… I should use the restroom." Isabella scoots away from me, popping to her feet just as Antony returns from his phone call. I watch her walk away and then turn to him to finish this deal, though I'll get to the bottom of this entire situation before I let her out of my sight today.

"So?" Antony asks. He doesn't bother sitting back down. He stands by the table, dropping a few bills to tip the waiter who will come around no doubt to clear the empty glasses and wine bottle.

"She's put her word behind it. Now, if I decide to sell, I'll call you, and I'll take no less than thirteen point eight." I carefully examine his expression that now shows no hesitation, no reluctance.

"Then I'll be in touch… Have a good evening, Mr. Costa, and give your father my regards." I've never met a fence so bold as to try to cross me by using my father as leverage. It wouldn't matter if I slit this man's throat right now. My father would ultimately back whatever choice I make. Fences are a dime a dozen and we can find a new one tomorrow. Antony should know better than to come between a father and son in this business.

Standing, I nod at him and wave him off, then search for Isabella. The restaurant is busy, as usual. There are so many women wearing red dresses, each dark-haired one I see makes me think it's her. Even after walking to the ladies' room to wait, I don't find her, so I walk out the back door into the cool evening, and then I spot her, standing under a streetlamp looking quite worried. She's standing with a man in a dark suit, long trench coat, and a brimmed hat that makes him look like he's expecting rain, and it appears he's up to no good.

11

ISABELLA

I'm sweating profusely out of sheer anxiety as I wobble toward the bathrooms. There's a line, three women waiting just to get in, and I need air now. I waltz right past them down the narrow, dark hallway to the back door and burst into the cool night air. It still shocks me how restaurants have the ladies’ room down dark halls like this with outside exits. Don't they know criminals could haul an unsuspecting woman right out the door?

The glow of an overhead streetlamp beckons me into the light where a bench is conveniently situated. I don't sit, but I do lean on it as I get my legs under me. Victor's "acquaintance" whom he demanded I meet and speak with is Antony D'Angelo, one of the men involved with Nicola's schemes back in the day. I knew this entire situation wasn't what Victor made it out to be that night in the gallery. He's stolen the Raphael and he's trying to fence it. I need Matthias.

My hands tremble, sliding along the front of my red dress. The hidden pocket on my thigh is where I always keep my phone, but I’m an idiot. I've left it on the table or maybe in Victor's limofrom when he picked me up. I want to call Paolo, tell him to get the real painting out of the gallery, or maybe Matthias again—he hasn't returned any of my messages in days now. But I have no way to do so.

"Ms. Isabella Rosaria De Luca?" I hear, and I stiffen. It's not often I hear my full name spoken like that, not since my father would scold me as a child, outside of a few times during the investigation into Nicola. I turn slowly and see a dark figure approaching. It's a man at least in his forties, dark hair, dark suit, long trench coat. The way he wears his Fedora down over his eyes is shady.

"Yes," I mumble, bracing myself for whatever it is this man wants. He isn't carrying a weapon in his hand, but he does have something, a wallet, maybe?

"I'm Detective Marco Gallo from Interpol… May I speak with you for a moment?" He glances up at the building, the back door of the restaurant allowing a sliver of light to draw a finger on the sidewalk leading to it.

I glance there too, suddenly feeling unsafe, as if this man who claims to be with the authorities poses a threat instead of a solution. Isn’t that what I want? To have Matthias here to unburden me? And this man, who now flashes his credentials at me, is one of them—the good guys.

"Uh, yes… I called…" My words fall flat. I haven't really called Interpol. I've called Matthias on his personal number. No one from Interpol except Matthias knows I've made that call. He might not have told anyone at all, either.

"Yes, I know." He holds his badge up for me for several seconds so I can read it carefully. It says "Dt. Marco Gallo, Works ofArt Unit." That's where Matthias works, and the recognition on this man's face says it all. Relief washes over me as he says, "My partner is Matthias Winslow, but he's gone inactive—taken off this case." He snaps his badge shut and slides it inside his coat as he moves closer.

I should feel alarmed now, but I don't. I glance at the restaurant again and sigh. "I called him about the lost Raphael. I have it in my possession. I want to give it to Matthias so he can?—"

"Give it to me," he says curtly. "I'll handle it." He moves closer still, and I back up a step. My personal space feels crowded.

"Well, I trust Matthias because we've worked together before. Why is he off the case? Can I still meet with him about this? I have more details like the fact that Nicola?—"

"Just give me the painting," he says again, this time more demanding, and suddenly, I'm on guard again. This man isn't here to play nice, not like Matthias would.

"If you let me explain. You see, I had a meeting set up with?—"

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