Page 17 of Painted in Sin

Istand at the check-in desk of the Hyatt Hotel glancing over my shoulder with only the purse I took with me to dinner with Victor. I could've stopped at home to get a change of clothing, but I'm scared. That man in the restaurant parking lot has me shaken. I know how valuable that painting is, and now that word is out that it has surfaced, every lowlife and criminal in the city will be after it. They'll come from around the world to get a chance to steal it.

It's not safe to be anywhere at all right now—not home, not this hotel, especially not Victor Costa's mansion. Though, at least there, I'd be safe from physical threats of other criminals. But my heart isn't safe there, and neither is my future. I can see how easily he'd have me wrapped around his finger and mixed up in his business he'll call legitimate art but will be nothing but more crime disguised below the surface.

"Just the single, then?" The woman at the counter looks around, like she's waiting for me to produce a partner or business associate. I know the evening gown I'm wearing after dinner isn't the most business-professional outfit I have, but I'm not a callgirl and I'm not here for some clandestine meeting. The anxious expression I have should give it away, but she seems oblivious.

"Just me, thank you. And how is security around here? Do you have any break-ins?" I chew the inside of my cheek and watch as she types into her keyboard, then swipes my credit card. My palms are sweaty and my shoulders are tense. I could go for a stiff drink and a hot bath, my go-to stress relievers.

"Ma'am, you're safe as can be here." Her eyes meet mine, and she smiles as she slides a room key and my credit card across the tall counter. "This is room three-oh-four. You'll take the elevators to your right, and it will be on the left when you arrive on the third floor." Her hand gestures like a flight attendant as she speaks. "Our full complimentary breakfast begins being served at six a.m. and finishes at ten. You can use the spa, pool, hot tub, and health center. And if you have any questions, dial zero for the concierge. Enjoy your stay."

And now I blend in, appearing like any other traveler here to spend a night for rest and relaxation as I take my cards and clutch them in my shaking fist. I nod at her and turn toward the elevators, still nervously watching my back. That man was able to know exactly where I was at that restaurant. He was waiting for me to come out alone, or maybe he'd have confronted me even if Victor were around.

It means he was following me. And if he was following me then, he could be following me now too. So could a hundred other potential threats, and the thought of it makes the hairs on my arm stand on end.

The elevator doors close me in and I ride to the third floor without event. There's no one in the hallway as I walk to the correct room and use the key card to open the door. It's niceenough inside, even better when I set the deadlock and chain the door shut, and I can finally relax.

Burgundy and olive surround me—drapes, carpet, bedding. It's like a scene from a low-budget production, but it's clean and I feel safer. I sit on the end of the bed and slip my shoes off to rub my sore feet for a few seconds. Then I reach for my phone. Matthias has to know what's going on. If Marco Gallo is a real agent at Interpol, Matthias can clear the air, and if not, I'll know he's just another criminal trying to put a notch in his belt.

I dial the number, however, and it goes straight to voicemail yet again. Something isn't adding up. We had a plan to meet so I could hand over that painting and he was supposed to be at the gallery, but to my knowledge, he never showed, and he's been AWOL since.

"Fuck's sake," I breathe, and I toss my phone onto the bed. No charger means it will die overnight, but maybe that's not a horrible thing. No one knows I'm here except Victor, and only because his driver brought me here. I could lie low for a few days, and Mr. Giani would worry, but he'd understand when I finally tell him the facts.

I grab a mini bottle of Fireball from the mini bar and walk to the bathroom to start a bath. I'm surprised to see it has jets built in, which only makes it that much more tempting. It may not be home, but it's the closest thing I have to a moment of relaxation. And as I start to unzip my dress for the second time tonight, I hear a knock at the door.

My first instinct is to freeze, to feel a shock of adrenaline shoot through me, but I creep to the door to find out who is there. I'm behind reinforced steel with a deadbolt, a lock, and a chain to keep me in and the person on the other side out. But I rise tomy tiptoes to see a bellhop in a hotel uniform with a pillow and blanket in hand. He must have the wrong room.

Annoyed but not scared, I unchain and unlock the door and open it a crack, smiling at the younger man. He's probably just an adult, twenty-one or twenty-two, with dark, stormy eyes and wispy blond curls.

"Yes?" I say, leaning on the open door.

"Housekeeping asked me to bring this up." His eyes are shifty, darting around for a second. They scan down to my chest and back up, and I tense as he checks me out.

"I didn't ask for an extra pillow or blanket. You must have the wrong room." My comment comes as I begin to step back and shut the door, to which he reacts at lightning speed, pressing a palm to the door and shaking his head.

The instant he does, I notice the tattoos across his knuckles, and dread washes over me.

"They said three-oh-four. Now I'm gonna have to make your bed." He glances both ways in the hall and I push the door closed. He's not here for pillows and blankets. Something is very wrong.

I scramble with fumbling fingers to reach the chain, but my hands are shading too badly and the light on the door lock flashes green before the handle turns again. He's got a key somehow. Someone helped him get access to this room and I don't know who.

"No!" I scream, pushing on the door, but he's stronger than me. The door bursts inward and he lunges at me, wrapping both hands around my neck instantly. I clutch at his wrists, pulling totry and remove his hands from my throat, but he's so powerful. He has me bent over the back of the chair, feet flailing. He's going to kill me.

"Where's the painting, bitch?"

I'm helpless, pinned down by this maniac and kicking and thrashing for my life. I see it flash before my eyes—my parents, what will they think? And Paolo, how will he handle being alone again?

And then I see a looming form behind the man with a large vase in his hands. The man, it's Gerard, Victor's driver. He brings the heavy vase down hard on the man's head, and the man lets out a deep grunt. His grip on me instantly loosens, and he drops to his knees and slumps forward. Gerard hits him another time, for good measure, and then extends his hand out to me.

I'm sobbing, sucking air like a vacuum, and he pulls me up to a standing position. My hands are shaking, body trembling from head to toe, and I wonder what he's doing here. Why is he in my room saving me?

"Ms. De Luca, we should call the authorities." Gerard pulls his phone out and I'm in a daze. I hear him talking while I stumble toward the bed where my phone and clutch lie. I notice I haven't even put my credit cards away. They lie there too, on the burgundy bedspread. I stare at them and shake my head, trying to wake myself up from the shock.

This is the third time in just a few days where a man has come at me with threats or attacks. I expect it from Nicola, but I don’t even know what I've gotten myself into. I am just an art authenticator and appraiser. Things like this aren't supposed to happen to me.

"Ms. De Luca," Gerard says, but I don’t turn to face him. I hear a flurry of activity in the hotel room and sirens in the distance. Shock has a death grip on my thought process. All I can do is stand here and stare and shake. "Ms. De Luca, let's go in the hallway," he says, taking me by the shoulders.

He guides me into the brighter light of the hallway, and someone produces a chair for me to sit on. The woman from the front desk is here too, handing me a glass of water, mumbling something about being "so sorry this happened." I can't even nod at her. The glass is in my hand, but I don't drink it.

When police come and ask me questions, I feel in shock, mumbling my name and occupation. I tell them, "He asked for the painting, but I can't give it to him." My insides are numb. I should've stayed with Victor. This poor man would be alive. I'm fairly certain I heard someone say he has no pulse. Gerard hit him so hard, it killed him.

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