I‘m sweating profusely out of sheer anxiety as I wobble toward the bathrooms. There’s a line, three women waiting just to get in, and I need air now. I waltz right past them down the narrow, dark hallway to the back door and burst into the cool night air. It still shocks me how restaurants have the ladies’ room down dark halls like this with outside exits. Don’t they know criminals could haul an unsuspecting woman right out the door?
The glow of an overhead streetlamp beckons me into the light where a bench is conveniently situated. I don’t sit, but I do lean on it as I get my legs under me. Victor’s ‘acquaintance’ whom he demanded I meet and speak with is Antony D’Angelo, one of the men involved with Nicola’s schemes back in the day. I knew this entire situation wasn’t what Victor made it out to be that night in the gallery. He’s stolen the Raphael and he’s trying to fence it. I need Matthias.
My hands tremble, sliding along the front of my red dress. The hidden pocket on my thigh is where I always keep my phone, but I’m an idiot. I’ve left it on the table or maybe in Victor’s limo from when he picked me up. I want to call Paolo, tell him to get the real painting out of the gallery, or maybe Matthias again—he hasn’t returned any of my messages in days now. But I have no way to do so.
‘Ms. Isabella Rosaria De Luca?’ I hear, and I stiffen. It’s not often I hear my full name spoken like that, not since my father would scold me as a child, outside of a few times during the investigation into Nicola. I turn slowly and see a dark figure approaching. It’s a man at least in his forties, dark hair, dark suit, long trench coat. The way he wears his Fedora down over his eyes is shady.
‘Yes,’ I mumble, bracing myself for whatever it is this man wants. He isn’t carrying a weapon in his hand, but he does have something, a wallet, maybe?
‘I’m Detective Marco Gallo from Interpol… May I speak with you for a moment?’ He glances up at the building, the back door of the restaurant allowing a sliver of light to draw a finger on the sidewalk leading to it.
I glance there too, suddenly feeling unsafe, as if this man who claims to be with the authorities poses a threat instead of a solution. Isn’t that what I want? To have Matthias here to unburden me? And this man, who now flashes his credentials at me, is one of them—the good guys.
‘Uh, yes… I called…’ My words fall flat. I haven’t really called Interpol. I’ve called Matthias on his personal number. No one from Interpol except Matthias knows I’ve made that call. He might not have told anyone at all, either.
‘Yes, I know.’ He holds his badge up for me for several seconds so I can read it carefully. It says ‘Dt. Marco Gallo, Works of Art Unit.’ That’s where Matthias works, and the recognition on this man’s face says it all. Relief washes over me as he says, ‘My partner is Matthias Winslow, but he’s gone inactive—taken off this case.’ He snaps his badge shut and slides it inside his coat as he moves closer.
I should feel alarmed now, but I don’t. I glance at the restaurant again and sigh. ‘I called him about the lost Raphael. I have it in my possession. I want to give it to Matthias so he can—’
‘Give it to me,’ he says curtly. ‘I’ll handle it.’ He moves closer still, and I back up a step. My personal space feels crowded.
‘Well, I trust Matthias because we’ve worked together before. Why is he off the case? Can I still meet with him about this? I have more details like the fact that Nicola—’
‘Just give me the painting,’ he says again, this time more demanding, and suddenly, I’m on guard again. This man isn’t here to play nice, not like Matthias would.
‘If you let me explain. You see, I had a meeting set up with—’
‘I told you, lady, Winslow is out. I’m taking this case, and you’ll give me that painting or I’ll make sure you and your precious artwork never see the light of day again.’ He leans forward as he reaches into his coat, and I feel like he’s going to pull out a gun. I want to run, but between the shrubs, the building, and the bench, I’m hedged in. Instead of a weapon, the man pulls out his phone, flashing the screen at me. It’s an image of the inside of my apartment, one of my originals hanging on the wall there.
‘What?’ I mutter, my hand floating to my lips.
‘I said, the painting is mine now. Hand it over and nothing will happen to you.’ His eyes narrow on me, and at the same time, both of us hear a noise. My head jerks toward the sound of it—the back door of the restaurant closing. It’s Victor, and he doesn’t look pleased to see this man so close to me. ‘Three days, lady,’ the man says, and he walks off before Victor can reach us.
Now trembling more than I was before, I tuck myself into Victor’s waiting arms and shake as he wraps them around me. ‘Who was that?’ he asks. His voice rumbles into my whole being, causing me to feel safer immediately, but to what end? This man is every bit as dangerous as the one who just confronted me, if not more.
‘The man… He…’ I can’t form words to tell him what happened. How could I? Tell him his painting is at risk of being stolen by a dirty Interpol agent, if that man is even an agent at all? My mind races as I continue to shake. I need to get the word to Matthias somehow that someone is pushing to get that Raphael from the inside, someone who works with him.
‘Let me take you home,’ Victor says calmly. It’s the most comforting his voice has ever been to me, but I’m not sure I want to go there. That man has been into my home. He’s seen my paintings, violated my sense of safety.
‘I can’t. Take me to a hotel. That man, he had pictures of my apartment. He’s been there.’ I don’t know if I’m making much sense, but Victor tenses and his embrace stiffens. The way his arms tighten around me is alarming at first, then reassuring.
‘He’s been in your apartment?’ he asks, and I nod. ‘This is about the Raphael, then?’ Again, I nod. I don’t want to go into detail because I’m not sure what I can even say to him right now. I don’t know who’s safe anymore.
‘I’ll take you to my place,’ Victor says sternly, and I feel him turning my body. I want to protest the move, but he’s very strong. I can’t resist his movement.
‘A hotel is fine.’ My feet are heavy as we walk toward the parking lot. I see his driver pulling the limo around, but the man is gone. Marco Gallo. I have to remember that name.
‘If they can get into your apartment, they can get into a hotel. Now you’re staying with me, and that’s final. I dragged you into this, and you’ll be safer under my watch.’ The limo pulls up and he opens the door. I don’t want to go with him. I want to go home, to feel safe again, but I know I have no choice.
Victor is right. He dragged me into this mess, and while I don’t think Nicola could get into my apartment without me there, that Interpol jerk did. There are probably a hundred art thieves and smugglers in this city looking to track me down and get to the painting. I didn’t ask for this target on my back, but it’s there. It’s only right for Victor to be the one to protect me until the whole thing is over.
So I climb in and remain silent the whole ride. Victor is on the phone making calls. Apparently, to some men with the Policia who probably sit right in his back pocket. Men like that can’t stop Nicola either. I need Matthias—which reminds me to search for my phone. I find it jammed into the crack of the leather cushion and pull it out, immediately dialing Matthias’s number, and it goes to voicemail straightaway.
The ride is short. Victor ends his calls when we pull through the gates of a massive property. The car rolls up a concrete drive past rows of grapevines and shrubbery illuminated by overhead lights. The house in the distance has the charm of a mid-century villa, but it’s massive too—easily the largest home I’ve ever seen with my own eyes.
‘This is where you live?’ I ask, gawking. My hand presses against the glass, forehead millimeters away as my breath fogs the window. I’m mesmerized.
Victor snorts and grunts, ‘Yes. My home… Wait until you see the inside.’ His tone almost feels like a chuckle, but I glance at him and see a deadpan look. I wonder if the man ever smiles about anything.
And he’s right.
Inside the house is more impressive than the drive up the long, winding driveway. The front entryway is all marble. A large fountain with a reproduction of the David seated in the middle of it dominates the foyer. Winding staircases hug the walls, circling around to rise to the second floor. Light streams from rooms to the left and the right, a living room and what appears to be an office, and straight ahead is what I can only describe as a ballroom—probably a formal dining room without the table.
The Persian rugs in all rooms match, taxidermy of rare exotic animals on the walls, and the Howard Miller grandfather clock along the wall on the far side catches my eyes. But nothing prepares me for what I see hanging on the walls everywhere.
Artwork…
Gorgeous, expensive artwork from all centuries. Some I can see are reproductions right away, but the Jackson Pollock is definitely authentic. I remember it sold for seventy million at auction—I just had no clue it was the Costa family who bought it.
‘You look impressed,’ he says as I walk away, eyes wide, jaw hanging loose.
‘Impressed…’ I repeat as I walk over to a painting that appears to be an authentic Monet. I would love to call my friend in Paris to have this authenticated, but for now I’m awestruck. ‘Victor, these paintings have to be worth more than your entire house.’
‘I told you, you’ll be safe here.’ His voice is devoid of compassion, as if I’m an object to be put under lock and key and not a priceless human life. The art alone is enough to charm me, so when I turn to see him looking at me and not these precious works, I feel my cheeks flush.
‘Isabella, tell me what you know about that Raphael.’ He strides over to me and stands in front of me as he undoes his tie and stares at me.
I think for a moment of ignoring what’s happening, continuing my intended course of turning in the Raphael and passing off my forgery to Victor. If the reward I’ve heard of is legitimate, it may be enough to help me relocate, start over somewhere else. Matthias could get me a new identity. I could live in Paris or Milan, paint my own works.
But the sincerity in his eyes, the way he protected me after that strange interaction with that man… I can’t help but see the human side of him. He’s not got a gun to my head demanding answers. He wants to know the truth about something he believes belongs to him, and I have answers to his questions.
‘My former boyfriend is an art thief.’ I have to start where it all began. I can’t skip ahead to the parts he’s asking me. If I do, he’ll only dig deeper anyway. I walk along the wall, away from him, staring up at one beautiful painting after another. ‘He’s after the Raphael, and some people think he’s the best person for the job.’ I think that too. I know what Nicola is all about.
‘Nicola Vitale?’ he asks, and I turn to him in curiosity for a moment, but it doesn’t surprise me that he knows Nicola. They’re in the same dangerous line of work.
I nod and continue. ‘He wants the Raphael to cash in on the reward, or maybe to fence it himself. It’s all about money with him. Nothing more.’
‘And the man tonight?’ Victor follows me now, a few strides behind me, but I feel his eyes on me while mine are on his artwork.
‘Another player in this game, a man who wants the painting worse than Nicola.’ I wince as I remember seeing my apartment in an image on his phone. ‘There is something very interesting about that painting and the frame.’ He has asked me more than once now about the frame, and maybe he deserves to know. I’m confused by it all, and with my only source for true help fading into memory, I’m not sure where to turn. I feel safe with Victor.
‘Yes, about the frame…. Tell me what you’ve heard.’ He touches my elbow, and I stop, turning to face him. He’s close to me now, so close I can smell his cologne and musk. It’s a heady mix that puts me at ease. His tie is gone, shirt unbuttoned at the top. My eyes bounce down to see the ridge of his collarbone and then back up to his eyes.
‘I’ve heard there are diamonds in the frame worth millions… But what’s more, they’re very special for some reason.’ I can’t verify the authenticity of the frame, but its weight alone tells me there is more than meets the eye.
‘I see,’ he says as his eyes fall to my lips and linger there, watching them. ‘And do you think the rumor is true?’ He blinks slowly, and his gaze rises again, his hand floating toward me to rest on my hip.
‘I’m not sure what’s true or what’s a lie. I just know I’m in the middle of another scandal. I barely survived the last one.’ I shudder as I remember Nicola’s hand on my throat—now more than once, he’s done it.
‘Well, I say we need to do some investigation.’ His thumb rides along the ridge of my hipbone, caressing it firmly as he pulls me into himself. ‘My father’s been obsessed with that painting, but I have an obsession he’ll never understand.’
I get the feeling that obsession is me, and I’m not that upset by it. The idea of Victor Costa pouring this amount of wealth, prestige, and class out just for me—just allowing me to view his paintings and artwork… I can’t fathom what he’d do if he were in love.
‘What’s that?’ I ask, licking my bottom lip. I want to fight the urge to enjoy this moment, but I don’t. He’s charming and elegant. His passion for artwork overwhelms me. I’ve never been so impressed by an art collection that I was willing to overlook someone’s sins, but here I am doing it.
‘You, of course,’ he whispers before leaning down to close the gap between us. My body is on fire, my mind already forgetting the excitement of the night. It’s just me and him, and all I can think about is the growing ache in my belly.
I told him what I know and he isn’t rushing off to destroy a frame for diamonds. I guess some things can wait. Some things are more important than money—at least in the short term.
