Page 19 of Painted in Sin

Nico pauses and glares at me, then Paolo. I know Paolo has my back even if our boss thinks we're stupid. "What he does in his personal time is of no concern to me. He asked us to authenticate his painting and we have. Now we will keep it on display for the duration of the time we agreed upon. You will take the Last Supper of St Francis, and the Sister in Mourning, and put them in the vault when the gallery is closed, but they will remain on display while we are open. Do you understand?" He scoffs. "And no more of this forgery business. You're lucky you even got this job, Isabella."

He storms out, and I shrink inwardly. It would've worked, the scheme Nicola thought up years ago. It would have protectedthat Pollock and kept it out of the hands of criminals, but Interpol was on to him, and I wasn't. If not for Matthias Winslow, I'd be the one in prison. Nicola took my forgery and tried to lift the authentic painting, but it had been his idea to hide the authentic painting in advance of a credible threat. The "reverse con" heist almost cost me everything.

But it can work the way it's supposed to. Giani just refuses to believe Victor's threat. I don't think for a second that someone is really going to go through all the trouble to break into this gallery and steal only one painting. Which means he's either lying entirely to see what we'll do or he's planning the heist himself.

"What will you do?" Paolo asks, creeping up behind me. He understands my frustration at Giani's refusal to listen to reason.

"I'm going to do what I do best. I'm going to protect that painting." I turn around and purse my lips, casting a serious gaze at Paolo. "All of these paintings should be locked in a vault for safekeeping until Costa is behind bars."

It pains me to speak about him this way, especially with the connection we share. But it's toxic. He may have me wrapped around his pinky because he's charming, sexy, and powerful, not to mention the way he knows art. But I'm not a fool. He's coming for the painting, and he's not going to do it when the gallery is closed and the artwork is in a vault.

"Isabella." Paolo sighs. "You are playing with fire." He follows me as I push the door open and walk out of the workstation through the studio into the gallery.

"Fire can't burn you if you're fireproof. Who is going to blame me if a forgery gets stolen while the authentic painting is behind atwo-foot wall of steel?" My stern glance is enough to silence him, but I know he wants to protest. Just knowing about my nefarious past is enough to make most true art lovers draw away from me, but I can't fathom allowing someone like Costa to do a bait and switch on me and just sitting by doing nothing.

"Just—"

Paolo's words are cut off by my phone ringing. I pull it out of my pocket and look at the number—the hospital is calling, But why? I wrinkle my forehead in confusion and hold up a finger as I answer it.

"Hello?"

"Ms. De Luca?" I hear. It's a woman's voice, sounds polite.

"This is she…" I stare at Paolo as the woman continues.

"Ms. De Luca, my name is Dr. Felicity DiOrio. I'm from San Camillo. I have a Mr. Matthias Winslow for you?" Her voice lilts in a question, and it makes my heart flip.

"Yes, of course. I'm here." I cup my hand over the phone to my ear so I can hear better as I retreat into the studio where it's quieter.

"Mr. Winslow was found badly beaten. He's had a few surgeries now to stymie internal bleeding, but he's stable. He would like to speak with you…" Every word feels like a hammer pounding into my brain. That's why he never showed. That's why he hasn't called. Someone got to him—Marco Gallo, maybe?

"Yes, of course." Glancing at Paolo, I move farther away and he seems to understand. He holds up a hand and waves goodbye, then grabs his jacket and keys and walks out of the studio and I'm alone.

"Bella," I hear in a grunt. Matthias sounds awful. Why am I the person he's calling?

"Matthias?" I feel terror surging through me. They've attacked an Interpol agent. They are deadly serious about this painting business. "My God, what happened?"

"I don't have long." His voice is hoarse, so quiet I almost can't hear. "They're coming for you—Nicola is coming. He got help getting out of prison to help Victor Costa lift that painting." The news isn't shocking, but it roils my stomach. I knew Nicola was involved but not how much, and now I know more truths than I want to know. I've slept with a man who is actively putting me in harm’s way.

"Matthias…" I can't believe what I'm hearing. My world spins around me in chaos. I don’t want this to be true because part of me desperately wants to believe Victor does want a way out of his lifestyle into something more pure.

"You have to protect yourself, Bella. There is a corrupt Interpol agent out there too, hunting the painting. He wants to do the right thing, but he's been threatened, and he's choosing a dark path because he's afraid… Don't trust anyone." His voice is fading fast, and I have so many questions.

"But what about?—"

"Don't trust anyone, Bella. Not even me." His voice is so weak I barely make out what he says, and the line clicks. I stand there staring at my phone not knowing what to do with this information. Victor got Nicola out of jail? And for what? To lift the Raphael from that museum?

My mind is reeling. I need to get to that hospital and find Matthias and speak to him directly. I rush into the workstationand grab my jacket and purse. Then I head out to hail a cab without thinking a single thing about my safety or what I’ll do if Matthias is right and Victor is behind all of this. I assumed it, but now my gut is so sick at the idea that my assumption isn't just my own thoughts playing tricks on me.

My feet rest at the edge of the curb, my hand in the air directed at passing traffic. I see a few cabs and hope one will stop, but before a driver spots me, someone else does. I feel him before I see him—Marco Gallo. My blood runs cold.

"Ms. De Luca," he says, approaching me. I glance around nervously and see Gerard a block away, watching. It gives me a sense of safety, but I'm still scared.

"What do you want?" I ask, and the tremor in my tone betrays me.

"I want to talk…" He looks up the street at Victor's car, like he knows I’m being watched, and he stops several strides away. "We got off on the wrong foot. I'm not who you think I am. Listen, lady, I need that painting before it gets into the wrong hands. I have to return it to the museum where it belongs."

"Go away," I say, taking a few steps backward. He doesn't move forward, an attempt on his part, I'm sure, to make me feel more comfortable.

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