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.
He pulls back, pushing the gun barrel into my temple. “Tell me where the painting is.” The car swerves, and Marco glares over his shoulder as the tires screech and then come to a total stop. He leans out the window and fires his gun several times, and I sit up straighter to see Victor’s car closing in. He’s here, just like he said. It makes tears well up as I realize he could be killed.
“No, don’t!” I reach for his arm as the driver takes off again, driving over the sidewalk to get around traffic. Marco jerks his arm back as I kick him and swing my fists.
“Stop it, you bitch! You’re just like your fucking father.” His hand comes down hard on my arm, striking me, and I wince and draw back. “He should’ve known better, and so should you. I was just doing my job, and he got in the way, and now I’m going to kill you just like I killed him.”
“What are you saying?” I’m whimpering, holding my arm to my chest as it throbs, and his gun is trained on me. He could pull the trigger and end me now, but he won’t until he knows where the real Raphael is.
“I’m saying he is dead because he sniffed up the wrong tree. I killed him when he got close to my secrets, and if you don’t give me that painting, I’m gonna kill you too.”
My mind races, and I look out the window searching for Victor, but all we pass are a blur of buildings and I realize we’re close to the gallery. He’s taking me back to get the painting, and he’ll force me to hand it over.
“I can’t get to it,” I blurt out, praying he doesn’t just kill me. “My swipe badge is deactivated. The painting is in the vault and I can’t get in. There’s another authenticator checking my work. They don’t trust me after what happened.” The lies flow out of my mouth so seamlessly, even I believe them. Giani would never take me out of play. I’m too valuable, but he does suspect something or he wouldn’t have hired that second authenticator to come in.
“Fuck’s sake,” Marco growls, and I see his frustration is because Victor hasn’t given up. Marco grabs my wrist and twists it, eliciting a cry of pain. ‘You’re running out of time, Isabella.’ His voice is cold and emotionless, contrasting with the rage in his eyes. I grit my teeth, tears streaming down my cheeks.
This man just openly confessed to killing my father for getting too close to his secrets, and I know he’s right. I’m out of time. “Fuck you, Marco. I’m not giving you that painting.” I draw back and kick him as hard as I can, and his gun fires. I wince, covering my ears and curling into a ball, but the bullet doesn’t hit me.
Instead, the car starts to spin wildly out of control. My head hits the window with a deafening crack and pain shoots down my neck and back. Marco lurches forward and then flies backward, and I lose sight of him as I’m flipped upside down and then righted. My body slams against the door handle, and I’m dizzy and I can taste blood inside my mouth. Glass lashes at every bit of exposed skin, and it feels like the world is moving in slow motion.
The driver slumps over the steering wheel as blood pours from a wound in his neck, his head lolled to the side in an awkward angle. I reach for the door, but I’m trapped as the deployed airbag pushes against my limbs. My head pounds with each beat of my racing heart, and I blink to clear my vision.
“Isabella!” I hear. It’s Victor’s voice, faint and distant. The ringing in my ears and my blurred vision make it hard to understand or interpret what’s going on around me, so I blink hard to focus. I’m upside down—no, the car is upside down. And Marco isn’t in here with me. The back windscreen is shattered, and half of his body lies on the pavement outside.
This isn’t real. This is not happening. I shut my eyes tight and open them again, willing the horrific sight to disappear, but it’s still there. Marco’s bloodshot eyes stare at me accusingly, and blood pools around his head in a growing puddle. Then he’s gone, dragged away by strong hands, but all I can see are Victor’s feet.
“Costa, I swear…” Marco’s voice is weak, trembling. Suddenly, instead of the monster who stole me and demanded I cough up what he wants, he is a coward, kowtowing to Victor’s strength, a strength I feel I’ve undervalued.
“Victor,” I say, but it comes out choked in a hoarse whisper. I can’t put words together. I want to scream that this is the man who killed my father, that he’s the one who has been working against Victor for years. That Marco Gallo knows the person behind all of this. If Victor kills him, we’ll never know who is behind this and when the next attack will come.
“Where is she, you piece of shit!” I watch Victor’s polished patent leather shoe slam into Marco’s chest, and blood oozes out of his head wound even faster. He falls forward, but his fingers find the frame of the painting amid the splinters of glass. I don’t see Marco’s gun, but I pray he doesn’t have it. I can’t lose Victor… not when I’ve just realized that what I really want isn’t a painting or a career. The idea of Marco killing him made me see how desperately I love him. How much I need him.
“You don’t care about her. You care about this.” Marco rises, holding the painting in front of his chest, and my eyes shut. My head hurts so badly and fatigue tugs at my core. I’m so tired, so weak.
I hear more shouting I can’t make out. In my mind, I feel the fresh trickle of water over my face, like a hot shower on a cold day—no, a light drizzle of rain on a warm spring morning. It’s pleasant and comforting. I’m tempted to give in to the pain and succumb to the darkness, but a loud sound—a door slamming or a heavy item being dropped—jars me.
My head droops to one side, and I suck in a heavy breath. “Victor…” I whimper, wishing he were here, wishing I could feel his arms wrap around me. “I’m so cold…” I tell him.
But he’s not here. I’m alone. It’s dark, and my hands are caught in the thorns of a wild plant lashing me to the ground. Something sits on my chest, suffocating me, and I smell something strong too. “I need you,” I cry, and still he doesn’t come. So I let darkness take me and pray he brings a light. He’ll need it to find me where I’m going.
