Page 32 of Painted in Sin

I don't know exactly what's in that treasure stored up behind lock and key waiting for me. I don’t think even my father knows it, but I believe him when he says it's a way to legitimize our family dealings and put us on the right track. In his old age, I believe even my own father has seen the folly of living a life of deception and darkness, that he wishes for more than what we've made for ourselves. My own heart has felt this yearning, and I'm not one to give up until I have what I want.

I glance at my watch when the waiter brings our food. Isabella is taking a while, but I did pour it on pretty thickly. I want this evening to be magical because I want her to understand how I feel. I'm not good with words the way I am with paint and canvas. I could paint her a masterpiece to show her how I feel about her, but saying those three words feels like carving a hole in a rock with a spoon. I just don't know how.

"The seafood orzo?" the waiter asks, hovering the dish over the table, and I nod at the empty seat where Isabella is sitting. He smiles at me as he sets it down, then places my dish of scallops on a bed of rice and butter sauce in front of me. The scent is heavenly, but I won't touch it until she returns.

I'm still on edge, waiting for the boot to drop, for whatever will happen tonight to take place so I can finish my plans and move forward. Gallo will steal the frame and Rocco will track it. They'll alert me, and I will go after the man responsible for continuing to send thieves after my artwork. Perhaps I'll be able to convince Isabella to return the original canvas too, but like my father, I, too, have realized the greater value of the frame.

My eyes flick up to the general direction of the ladies’ room where I've not seen a trace of my beautiful date for ten minutes. I'm beginning to wonder if she stood me up, but after seeing how scared she was when she walked out of the gallery to get into my limo, I know she's not going to walk out the door alone. She won't even stay in her own apartment alone yet. She's been living out of a hotel for weeks.

Frustrated, I begin to get antsy. The food is growing cold. Fifteen minutes have passed and still there's no sign of her. I take her clutch in hand and look at my phone, wondering if I'm going to have to go into the toilets to drag her out, when I get a text from Rocco. I swipe right to open and read it.

Rocco 7:17 PM: He gave us the slip, Boss… But we're tracking him now. Will update soon.

Gave them the slip? I scowl and wonder what that means as I rise slowly to head toward the bathrooms. Isabella is wasting my time now and it's just frustrating to feel stood up at my own restaurant on a date I'm paying for and after I've been pouring my heart out to her.

My eyes skim through a few more messages before I switch to the tracking app to see where the frame is. Rocco's been given specific instructions to follow and report, and I know he will do exactly as I've requested.

But when the app opens and the flashing blue indicator on the screen begins glowing, telling me the painting's tracker is live, the green one flashes alongside it. The tracker in Isabella's bracelet is active. It was the moment I turned it on and clipped it around her wrist for safety's sake. And it's moving—fast. Both trackers are in the same spot moving away from this restaurant,and I'm standing here like a fool thinking she's been hiding in the toilets this whole time.

"Fuck!" I shout, drawing attention from people around me. My pace quickens from casual to panicked. I race toward the back door already calling Gerard, but he doesn't pick up. He's got the car running, passenger door thrust open and stopped curbside as I dash through the doors. I dart into it and slam the door shut, barking, "Drive."

"I'm sorry, sir… I didn't even see her. The tracker started glowing and?—"

"Shut up and go faster," I snap at him.

The car's tires lay rubber on the asphalt, and smoke erupts as we peel out of the parking lot and into the street, honking our way through traffic. Isabella is in a car, racing away from us. She must be, but I can't see it anywhere. The tracker shows me they’re blocks ahead in traffic moving just as quickly as we are, and Rocco has to see this too.

Why hasn't he called? I dial his number, but it goes straight to voicemail, and I swear as I pull my gun from the holster. "Fucking turn here!" I yell, pointing at a lefthand turn as we come up quickly on an intersection. Gerard slams the breaks a little too late, and he twists the wheel, sending us drifting into the sharp turn. The tires squeal in protest, and my midsection hits the seatbelt as I brace for inertia. Gerard swears in Italian under his breath and slams on the gas, doing eighty in heavy traffic as we careen around another corner.

“Where’s he taking her?” His glance at me reveals his own concern. His one task was to watch her and keep her safe and he let his guard down. He knows if something happens to her,something will happen to him too. There is no doubt in my mind that it’s Marco Gallo who has taken her, and Gerard should’ve recognized him immediately. This is his failure through and through.

The GPS shows me that they’re cutting through back alleys now, trying to bypass traffic, and it's working. My fingers grip the handle above my head, a muscle ticking in my jaw as Gerard takes another sharp turn.

“You have to go faster. He’ll kill her.” My guess is that he’s taken the painting from the gallery and Rocco didn’t see it happen. It means Gallo is good at what he does, but I’m better. It also means he probably knows the painting he stole is a forgery and that whoever he’s giving it to will expect the authentic one. But this is good news—the fact that he’s taken Isabella. It means Gallo doesn’t realize the value of the frame is more than the value of the painting itself, or maybe the man he’s stolen it for, the one twisting the knife, doesn’t know the frame’s value.

“He won’t kill her,” Gerard responds confidently, earning a look from me. “Until he gets what he wants.”

That fact does little to comfort me as I watch the GPS tracker bounce around my phone’s screen. Gallo takes a left turn and his car slows. We’re gaining on him and there’s no way out for him now. He’s headed toward the gallery and he won’t get there.

“Gun it,” I tell Gerard, and he does. I open my window, leaning out to see if I can spot the vehicle, but in the sea of cars, I don’t know which one I’m even looking for. My gun is ready, safety off, gripped in my hand ready to open fire, but I’m hesitant. I don't want to cause an accident that will harm Isabella, but when Gallo cranes his arm out of the rear passenger window, I have no choice. At least I know which car he’s in.

“Call Rocco. Tell him we need backup,” I order, and then I take aim.

27

ISABELLA

Marco’s driver races through the traffic like a trained racecar driver, and Marco’s gun is aimed right at me as he angrily spews out hateful words and accusations. I’m shaking, ready to piss myself in fear as I clasp the bracelet to my wrist tightly and pray Victor is actually tracking it, that he meant what he said about my needing him and his having a way to find me.

“You won’t get away with this,” I hiss, but I’m fighting back tears.

“I already have, haven’t I?” I hate his voice, the way he uses it like a weapon. “I have what Costa wants—the frame and you. And you’re going to tell me where the real painting is, because I won’t go back to these assholes without it.” His eyes narrow as they flick around. He’s watching for a tail, which means he thinks Victor is going to chase us down. Good. He should be very afraid of that.

“You’ll have to kill me then, because I’m not telling you,” I spit out, hoping it sounds more confident than I feel.

Marco laughs maniacally , yanking my neck so hard my airway constricts. “I have no problem with that, Isabella, as much as your father might object.”

My blood runs cold, and my heart feels like it’s lodged in my throat where his gun had been moments ago. “Leave him out of this,” I croak, but I can tell he’s getting off on this.

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