Page 4 of Cruel Secrets

This is personal.

And when I take her, there won’t be anyone there to save her.

CHAPTERTWO

GIA

“Nobody is goingto be able to tell the painting is a forgery,” I say, tone sharp as I hand the replica of Monet’sWoman with a Parasolto Jace. “And I swear to all that is right with this world that if you damage this painting on the way to the buyer, I’ll have Noah skin you alive.”

My stomach twists as he puts his grubby hands on the delicate canvas, snatching away yet another piece of my freedom.

Noah’s cut would take more, leaving me with nothing but the scraps he saw fit to give. Again.

Jace chuckles and shakes his head. “You really think you’re intimidating? I’ve known you since you were in diapers.”

“Don’t remind me.” I glare at him as he takes the canvas, nearly ripping the brown kraft paper that’s wrapped around the rectangular frame. “That painting is worth over eighty million dollars.”

His bushy eyebrows pull together, making the scar that cuts through the right side of his browbone stand out. “It would be, if it were the real painting.”

I plant my hands on my hips, glaring at him. He knows as well as I do that the painting is a work of art. Modern technology makes it harder to pass off forged artworks, but I’m good at what I do. I’ve been able to trick the several dealers Noah employs.

And Jace wouldn’t know the difference between the real painting and the forged one even if I were standing there and telling him which one I painted.

This isn’t the first time I’ve thought about snatching the palette knife from my back pocket and plunging it into his jugular. It would be an easy way to end him.

Word would get back to Noah before I could escape, though. He would be waiting for me no matter what way I turned. He would take his time killing me for dispatching his best solider.

It’s not a risk I’m willing to take.

Not yet. Not until I have a plan to escape.

Jace turns and loads the painting in the back of the black van, the door sliding shut with a low groan against the rusty track. “You really think this is going to go for eighty million?”

“If not that much, then very close.” I lean back against the brick wall, the rough edges of the warehouse biting into my back. “Which means that if you don’t take care of that, Noah is going to have your head. Now, personally I won’t be bothered by that, but you know how he gets.”

“I liked it better when you were in diapers and didn’t talk.”

“Well, sadly, I’m twenty-six now and I talk.” I pull my hands out of the pockets of my jeans, picking at a random spot of white paint. “Look, just promise me that you’re going to make sure this painting gets to the dealer.”

“How much of a cut do you take?” Jace asks, curiosity in his gaze as he looks between me and the painting. “Seeing as you’re the one doing the work, the cut has to be pretty large, right?”

“You would think so.” Even I can hear the bitterness in my own voice.

Though I know I should be making a lot more money than I am, it’s hard to establish yourself when your older brother is the leader of the mafia and demands a ninety percent cut of the money coming in after the dealer takes nearly sixty percent to being with.

Jace doesn’t need to know that, though.

I still make more than enough money to support my lifestyle and to take care of my family if anything were to happen, but it’s not enough to feel comfortable.

Jace hums before getting in the van and taking off. My shoulders slump as I watch the chance at freedom disappear once more. If I had kept that painting—sold it myself without Noah knowing—I could move to some island in the middle of nowhere. I could spend the rest of my days forging paintings instead of looking over my shoulder, wondering when I’m going to die because I’m no longer useful to him.

I head over to the car waiting for me and get in, staring out the window as we pass by the other run-down warehouses in the area. It’s exactly the kind of place that’s been forgotten by the rest of society.

The walls are crumbling at the corners and the metal doors are rusting. Most of the windows are covered with bars or broken, shards of glass scattered on the ground.

The driver glances at me in the mirror as we head into a small suburb outside the city, curving down the road to a little brownstone house with a yard the size of a stamp.

Kat leans against the stone fence covered in ivy that surrounds it all, a manila envelope in her hands.

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