Page 25 of Painted in Sin

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VICTOR

The house is normally so quiet I can hear a pin drop, but Isabella sneaks down the stairs wearing my house robe as I'm giving final instructions to my men and I never hear her. They're set to move the painting as I've instructed, as carefully as they can so as not to be caught. And though I'm sorely disappointed I'll be losing out on some of the payback I hoped for after dealing with the drama of this situation, I know it's the right thing.

"Take it where we discussed, then with the burner phone, call in the tip when you're clear. And don't get caught," I say just as I notice the movement from Isabella in the doorway out of the corner of my eye. I turn to look at her as my men begin taking the painting off the easel. She's become something I never thought my life would encounter—a pause, a selah… The wind of change that I've been needing to push my sails and help me shift course. "Ah, the beautiful Bella… Good morning."

She pads into the room hesitantly, flicking her eyes at my men dressed in their suits, strapped for the mission. I see her eyes nervously catch on the weapons and she crosses her arms overher chest as she approaches my outstretched arms. We spent the entire night tangled up in each other and it convinced me of one thing. The thought of going straight, of making my family legacy something more than just a criminal enterprise, isn't a pot dream. It's a reality. And I want her in it.

"What…?" she asks without asking.

"They're moving the painting. The tip will be called in later this morning." Turning her away from the men working, I guide her over to the tray of juice and tea my maid brought in earlier. I haven't touched it, too busy giving orders to enjoy my morning tea. So I pour her a drink and offer her the mug, which she accepts. But her eyes stay fixed on my men until they leave.

"I should go, Victor." She seems stiff around me this morning, not at all the pliable warmth I had last night. It's fear. I can see it in her eyes, fear for her future, her career. Fear of what will happen to her when she gives in and allows her heart to fully become mine.

"You know," I say, pouring my own mug of tea from the small kettle, "you should be painting these." I nod at the stolen Degas mounted on the wall. Three ballerinas in pink holding flowers, standing with their backs to the viewer. One has a lace untied and her hair is a mess.

"I told you?—"

"I mean," I say, interrupting her to correct her thinking. "That you should be painting masterpieces… Your works. Not forgeries, Bella." As I speak, she walks toward the Degas to stand in front of it. I set the mug down, having not even taken a sip, and follow her. Her body is magnetic. I can't keep my hands offher. I slide my arms around her torso and rest my chin on her shoulder.

"I'm not…" she starts, but she doesn’t finish.

"Of course you are." Placing a kiss on the bare spot of skin below her ear, I continue. "You can take a masterpiece and match it stroke for stroke. You are well capable of seeing a beautiful sunrise and capturing its beauty on canvas, and I don't have to see your work to know it."

Her shoulders droop a little as she sips the tea. Her silence is loud, screaming something I don't understand, but she doesn't pull away from me. I tighten my arms on her middle and straighten as she leans back into my chest and rests her head on my shoulder.

"I just don't see how anyone would look at my art and see value. Look at these," she says, gesturing at the artwork on the wall. "I'm nothing like this."

Hearing her lack of confidence wounds me. Her art is incredible, far better than any Degas or Pollock. The millions I would pay for just one small, framed painting created by her hands… And she doesn't see it.

"Can I show you something?" I ask her, realizing this may be the only way.

She pulls away, turning over her shoulder, and nods. "Of course…"

I take her hand and lead her through the living room. She sets her mug on the tray as we pass it and enter the hallway. Three doors down on the left is my private studio, a place I alone am permitted to venture. My staff is locked out. My father doesn'teven know it exists, and like an inner sanctum, I hold it very close to my heart. Isabella is the first to cross the threshold.

"Oh, my," she breathes as she walks in and I flick on the light. My easel is there, an oil painting only half finished on its perch. The walls hold more treasures, a few Monets and a Vermeer. Different, but priceless in their own way.

"Bella, you are giving me new hope." I shut the door quietly as she takes in the works I've kept hidden here, more secrets no one knows about. My own art is hardly worth comparing to any of these or hers, but I dabble. Her eyes take in the sight, then turn to look at me.

"But how?" There is genuine curiosity and compassion there.

"I wasn't just putting you on when I said I want to go legitimate." I move toward her and take her hands. "I want my life, my legacy, to be that I've changed the course of my family history. This art," I say, taking a hand away from hers to gesture, "I want it to be my legacy, preserving art, displaying it, protecting it for the next generation and the one after that."

"Oh, Victor."

"And I want you to be a part of that." I take her hand again, locking eyes with her. "You understand my passion. You know what art means, what it represents. I can't think of anyone else in this world who mirrors my heart and love for these lost pieces."

She presses her lips into a line and her eyes dip. Isabella is a puzzling woman, someone I never thought I'd meet or fall in love with but someone I know I can't live without. I'll do anything for her, even defy my father if that's what it takes. And whatever the mystery behind the Raphael turns out to be, I see it more as thehistorical tale that can be shared for ages to come, not a financial boost.

"We can leave it all behind—the forgery, the crime, smuggling. We can put our pasts behind us and do something real, something tangible for the art world, Bella. Say you can see a future like this for us too." I bring her hands to my lips, and she looks up at me as I kiss her knuckles. She doesn’t say anything, but I can see her thinking it over.

"Paint for me… Just whatever comes to mind. And think about it. Tell me you don't feel it too—the need to do something real, something that matters, something more than just working in a gallery authenticating old art." I back away, letting her hands fall, and she utters a sound of protest but says nothing as I open the door.

I know my interruption of her life has her questioning everything, and she has every right to be angry with me for subjecting her to so much danger and risk. It really is all my fault. And last night, seeing how enraged she was about the real Sister of Mourning, I realized this is all about the art for her. Something I should've known all along. I can't exploit her the way others have. She deserves to be put on a pedestal and worshiped as the true modern master she is.

Even if she doesn't see it about herself, I do. And I want the world to see it. I just hope she can look past my darkness and the mistakes of my past to see that I'm genuinely interested in turning over a new leaf for her. For us. For a future we can have.

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