Page 40 of Painted in Sin

EPILOGUE: VICTOR

The gallery hums with life. It’s opening night. The air is rich with the scent of expensive wine and the murmur of conversation, slipping between words of praise and excitement as guests move through the space. I stand in the center of it all, leaning against the polished bar, glass in hand, watching the crowd flow around me.

Isabella’s work commands the room. She stands among her pieces with effortless grace, her presence larger than the canvases that surround her. Each painting is a story—her story, raw and unfiltered, yet painstakingly precise. There’s nothing else like it. And the guests know it. They drift from one piece to the next, speaking in hushed tones, marveling at her mastery. I catch snippets of their admiration.

“The colors—so vivid.”

“It feels alive.”

The gallery has quickly cemented its place in Rome’s art scene, showcasing both the timeless works of the masters and the rising stars. And tonight, it’s hers that shine the brightest.

I sip my wine, watching her from across the room. She’s lost in conversation with a group of guests, her laughter soft and light, her hands moving as she speaks. There’s a confidence in her now, one that wasn’t there before. I can’t help but feel a surge of pride, watching the woman who once stood in the shadows of others, now the center of attention. She owns the room, and in some ways, she owns me too.

But it’s not just her work I’m proud of. The gallery itself, Il Nuovo Studio—it’s the culmination of everything we’ve built together. My family’s name, once tied to shadows and whispers, now stands proudly alongside the artists who have defined history. I’ve managed to shift my family’s businesses into something legitimate, a future of stability with art at its core. And Isabella—her talent has become the heart of it all.

I glance at my collection scattered among hers, older but in no way better than hers. They’re a quiet contrast to her vibrant, compelling pieces, but they speak of my journey—of where I come from. I’ve always had an appreciation for the classics, but it’s Isabella’s art that’s brought everything full circle, made it real.

I take another sip of my wine, watching her from a distance as she moves with effortless grace, weaving between conversations, her voice rising and falling in soft laughter. She’s the heartbeat of this night, and the room hums around her. She no longer hides in the shadows of greater artists, those figures whose names used to dominate every conversation, whose work filled the walls of prestigious galleries. Tonight, Isabella stands confidently among them, her talent recognized, her place in the art world undeniable.

It’s not just her presence that commands the room, though—it’s the quiet brilliance behind each of her pieces. Theway she blends classical influence with her unique voice, her brushstrokes full of confidence yet still raw, still unafraid to expose the messy parts of her soul. The kind of art that makes people stop and stare, not because of its beauty but because it challenges something within them.

I glance over at the carefully curated display of my own works. They are, perhaps, more understated than hers, but each piece is a quiet reflection of who I am. Rougher, grittier, almost a raw sketch of the journey I’ve been on—a journey that led me to this place. To this night. To her.

I look back at her, captivated. The diamonds from the frame have served their purpose. Some were used to establish this space—Il Nuovo Studio—others to secure the Costa family’s rightful claims to businesses across Europe, enterprises once fraught with shadowy dealings. The dangerous secrets that used to hang like a dark cloud over my family’s legacy? They’ve been intentionally erased. Gone. Buried, lost to the past.

I chose Isabella. I chose a better future for us both over the darker parts of my past. And tonight, as I watch her charm the crowd, as I see how far she’s come from the quiet, uncertain woman I met not long ago, I know I made the right choice.

She’s no longer the woman hiding in the wings, the one who couldn’t make her mark for fear of being overshadowed by others. Now, she stands with the masters—perhaps not in their place, but alongside them. She’s carved out her own path.

I can’t help but watch her. She’s surrounded by a group of art enthusiasts, Paolo included, though I’ve already caught the glint in his eyes. He wants to pull her back into his orbit. He wants to work with her again. I see it in the way he watches her every move, the way his words linger too long on the edges of her fame.But Isabella doesn’t notice. She’s too busy taking the room in stride, effortlessly engaging with the people around her.

She’s mine, and she’s no longer just my secret or my treasure to protect. She belongs to this world, and she’s making her mark on it. My place here, in this gallery, in this world, is because of her.

The noise of the room fades into a soft hum as I approach her, leaving just the two of us, standing close, surrounded by her work, the dim lighting casting shadows on her face, making her look even more ethereal. Isabella is looking at a piece across the room, lost in thought, her expression soft. I step closer, my breath catching as I watch her. The way the light catches her hair, the curve of her neck, the way she moves—it all feels like something out of a dream.

She turns slightly, and I reach for her hand, drawing her back toward me just like the night we first met when I secreted her away to romance her. Her fingers curl around mine instinctively, but she doesn't ask why I pulled her away from the crowd. She simply follows, trusting me, as she always has. We move deeper into the gallery, farther from the laughter, farther from the lights. And for a moment, it’s just us—our world.

I stop her in front of one of her paintings, the brushstrokes still fresh in my mind from earlier. I’ve seen her evolve over the past twelve months through each piece, but this one is different. It feels more intimate, more hers than anything before it. I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to tell her everything I feel, everything I’ve kept inside.

“Isabella,” I say, my voice low, just for her. Her eyes lift to meet mine, dark with curiosity. I can feel the quiet shift between us, the intimacy of the moment settling in. “You’ve changedeverything for me,” I whisper. “You’ve given me a life I never knew I could have.”

She smiles softly, but I can see the questions in her eyes about the unspoken words between us. “Victor, what are you?—”

I don’t give her time to finish. I step closer and touch her cheek, my thumb brushing over the soft curve of her skin, and I ask her quietly, as though the words might shatter the world around us if I say them aloud. “Marry me.” My heart tenses, afraid to lose what I have with her on the chance that I could have more, but the words are out there in the air, settling over her mind.

For a moment, she doesn’t speak, just stands there, her eyes wide and searching mine, the world still spinning around us. Then she nods, so softly, so quietly, but it feels like everything.

“Yes.”

I exhale, and the tension breaks in an instant, but I don’t have time to savor the moment before I pull back slightly. The gallery is still alive behind us, but now I’m the one who has cause to celebrate. I clear my throat and turn to face the crowd, feeling my pulse race with the weight of what I’m about to do.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I say, my voice carrying across the room, and suddenly, the noise fades again, all eyes on me. “I’m proud to announce that tonight, Ms. Isabella De Luca has agreed to marry me.”

The cheers that follow are deafening, but all I can hear is her quiet laughter, the sound that makes every moment worth it.

Her hand slips into mine as the last of the cheers fade, and she pulls me away from the crowd, guiding me toward the back of the gallery where her latest work rests, hidden from the worldfor just a little while longer. There’s something in her eyes, a quiet excitement that mirrors my own.

She reaches for a small canvas tucked to the side, its edges carefully illuminated by the soft light that falls from above. With a small smile, she turns it toward me, and my breath catches. It’s a painting of a house. Simple at first glance, but the more I look, the more I see—the soft, muted colors of a home by the coast. The windows are framed with gentle light, the sky above painted in hues of soft gold and pink, as if the sun is just beginning to set. But what stops me is the window—a nursery, barely visible through the soft curtains. The outline of a crib, the faintest hint of something that belongs to the future.

---