Page 22 of Painted in Sin

"You know if I find a forgery out on the market, I am going to know it came from this facility. I'm going to know it was you. And when I confirm that, there's not a gallery or museum in the world who will employ you. I think it's time for you to play my game by my rules."

I back away, pressing my fingertips to my mouth and shaking my head. I'm not playing his game. I'm not playing anyone's game. I want off this fucking roller coaster to live my life again without all this drama. I'm definitely in the wrong line of work, and Victor's fantasy of going legitimate, having an art business that's all about creating the art, is sounding better and better.

I won't let Marco Gallo intimidate me like this, but I'm surrounded by police officers who will think he's an honest man, not the crook he is. Who could I even go to for protection? And who would believe my story?

Turning, I head to where I last saw Mr. Giani, only to find him gone. Detective DiMarco eventually finds me again and sits me down. I give him the full story—how Victor warned us this would happen, what Mr. Giani's response was. The man seems skeptical about that but nods and takes notes. They fingerprint everything, though they don't ask to see in the vault since I had it locked. Security footage backs up our stories, and Giani insists we lock up for the week.

When the dust settles hours later, I stand in the vault alone, in front of the authentic Sister and the original St. Francis frame. It's when I notice something I've not noticed before. The lights in the studio are out and only the light within the vault is glowing on the frames. And in that light, something unique appears onthe frames—faint blue lines hidden in the painting I've never noticed before.

I reach into my pocket and pull out my spectacle glass, hunching over the images. The blue lines are arranged in a unique fashion, almost appearing like a map of sorts. I bounce from one frame to the other, inspecting them closely as it dawns on me. The reason these two paintings are significant together isn't the paintings themselves. These frames are a map to something larger. Something Raphael was trying to tell us about.

18

VICTOR

When Vitale shuts the car door, seated next to me with the painting in hand, my driver pulls out. I hear the sirens coming closer and know he's clean. They have probably gotten him on camera at some point during his heist, and that's okay. After today, he is none of my concern.

"I want ten percent," he demands harshly as I take the painting from him. I examine the artwork carefully up close. Knowing this is a forgery made with paint produced in a factory a few miles from here, my fingers trace each brush stroke as I smile at it.

"You'll get nothing," I tell him absently as I admire her work. She really is a master, probably one of the greats who will forever go unrecognized unless someone highlights her work for her.

"Then this painting is mine. You're not the one who put your life on the line. Those cops aren't going to just forget the painting was stolen. They'll come looking. I need money to make myself disappear." Nicola reaches for the painting, and I move it away from him.

He falls silent as I continue to fawn over the painting, ignoring his comment. "Can you believe how real this looks? My God, she's a magician." I am truly amazed at her level of skill, no doubt honed through hundreds of hours of her own practice.

"Yeah, it's why I tried to get her to help me." Nicola is referring to his own attempts at forgery, though Isabella was wise to turn him in. He never would've gotten away with it, anyway. He is an amateur. Good at stealing, awful at art.

"And she bested you, so what does that say about you, Vitale?" My eyes rise to meet his scowl and I snort. "Some things are better left to professionals, Son. Which is why I'm afraid my offer to you is less than you want." I'm not giving this man a red cent. He can kiss his idealistic dreams of power and wealth goodbye. Men like him are followers, meant to trail behind the real leaders and kiss their boots.

"I can go to the authorities, tell them my side of the story. You think they won't cut me a deal when they learn Victor Costa is the one who stole the lost Raphael from that museum? You think it won't be an interesting story for the Policia when I tell them you sprang me from prison to be your gopher?" His eyes flash with hatred and the threat doesn't sit well with me.

I set the painting aside and study him for a second. If he's asking ten percent, then he knows there is something more to this than meets the eye. Nicola isn't a stupid man—slow maybe, but not ignorant. Even at the full value of both the painting and its diamond-housing frame, the payout at ten percent is only two-point-six million, give or take, a fraction of what I would demand if it were me doing the negotiating. So for him to ask so little surprises me.

"What aren't you telling me? What is it about the painting you think is so valuable?" For all he knows, it could be worthless, but I don't get the feeling he thinks that. His eyes narrow, and he massages the bridge of his nose as he shifts nervously in his seat.

"If I tell you, I get the full ten percent… twelve if I'm actually right." A shifty man, dark and sinister. He thinks he's got me cornered and he's wrong.

"Alright," I say with no intention to follow through.

"The frames are the important part, just like your father believes. They're a key—a map of some sort, to something your great-great-grandfather hid in the late seventeen hundreds just before his death. Something of unfathomable value, billions in today's currency. And I want in."

The car hits a bump, jostling both of us, and I am intrigued. "Who else knows about this?" I ask him, suddenly getting a fuller picture of what's happening. My father must know something, more than he's let on—more than the diamonds. Something he doesn't want me to know about because in the wrong hands, this information could cause chaos among thieves everywhere.

"Just a few historians. It's a closely guarded family secret, I hear. I'm surprised you don't know this." His eyes narrow as the car comes to a stop, just as I expected it to.

"Get out," I order, no longer having any use for him. He's served his purpose for me, and even more so now. I don’t need his help decoding a map or finding history. If it's out there and there are historians who know about it, my men will unearth it, and Vitale won't be a part of that expedition into truth.

"So, ten percent?" he asks, extending a hand to shake.

I look down at his hand and take it with cold intent, shaking it. But as he climbs out, I reach for the door handle and my gun at the same time. The window lowers slowly before the driver pulls away, and I point my Glock with its silencer out the window.

"Thank you for your help, Nicola," I say under my breath. I pull the trigger and watch the blossom of crimson on his back as he falls to his knees, then forward onto his face. This situation is developing into something far more curious and intriguing than I could've ever thought. If Isabella is aware of these new revelations, she hasn’t let on. It's time to pay her a little visit and see how much she knows, but not before dropping this painting off to Antony. I need his valuation on it.

19

ISABELLA

The Uber takes me straight to Victor's house where I don't even wait to be announced. I don't know if he's home, but I walk into his house like I own it. My feet slap on the marble floors as I pass his study and go straight to his living room where I find him with his arms crossed over his chest standing next to the Sister of Mourning forgery stolen from the museum. I'm livid. I knew it was him!

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