05

I nod, and turns, her dress swishing around her like the unfurled petals of a rose. She goes deeper into the museum, twisting down hallways, until we come to a single room. Although it’s blocked by yellow tape, Violetta ducks beneath it.

I hesitate. But she looks back at me, her smile wry, and I sweep myself under the tape.

The room is white, lit by thin rectangular lights. For a moment, they flicker.

But I’m not looking at the art. I’m looking at Violetta.

I watch the gentle curve of her nose, the point of her smile. The thick edge of her eyebrow, sharply cut.

« Do you see that ? Right there ? »

That is when I notice the blank space. Next to it, there’s a silver slate with the words Desperate Dancer engraved it. The details―Corinthe Alexandria, twenty-six years old, 1716. But the painting itself, the artwork is gone.

Missing.

Stolen.

I reel back, gasping for breath. « We . . . really did. We got drunk and we stole a painting. How ? »

Violetta doesn’t look panicked at all by this information. In fact, she is glowing with a smirk. I can’t help it when my eyes dart wildly around the room, looking for security cameras. Will they see me ? Will they know ?

I can’t go to prison. I can’t be charged with theft in Italy.

« Relax, mia cara, » Violetta says. « They’re disabled for tonight. They’re stuck on a loop―playing feedback from two weeks ago. »

This knowledge is terrifying . . . and dangerous.

I step back. « What did you do ? »

Because the only way she could know this is if―she did it herself.

« Relax, Cadenza, » she says. « I wanted to show you. The proof. Look at what you did. »

« I couldn’t have. » But the words are weak, lifeless. Because I can feel the flashes of that night, and I remember enough. Giggling. The weight of a painting. Telling a woman―Violetta―how to hold the canvas so it would be preserved.

How did I know how to steal something ? How did I know how to pull off a heist ?

I back away. « I’m sorry. I have to go. »

Violetta’s eyes harden. « Is that your answer ? Running away ? Like you did at the apartment ? »

For a moment, I pause. Somehow, I feel that this time, if I leave . . . I won’t be able to find her again. Even if I spent the rest of my life hunting for her, this chance, this woman would be gone.

So I stay. But I can’t stop my racing heart, my shaking hands.

And then I have a question. A thought.

« Why . . . would you tell me the security is down in the museum tonight ? » It wasn’t just to show me proof that we stole a painting . . . it was to steal one again. « Are you . . . you’re trying to . . . » I can’t say the words.

« I need your help. » Violetta’s voice is almost apologetic, her caramel eyes darkened.

« I can’t help you. I’m sorry. »

But I already know what she wants. The value of these paintings is inaccessible to the general public. To steal one, it would be to pick at random. There is no way for common citizens, without an art degree or a specialist, to know what is worth what.

What she wants . . . is for me to help her find the most expensive painting.

I can do that. But how can I help her ?

« It’s too dangerous, » I add, stepping back once more. « I could get expelled. Or put in prison. Or deported back to Los Angeles. »

Violetta’s thick, black curls bounce over her shoulders as she moves closer to me. « But what if I offered you half of the stake ? »

If I let her known which paintings were valued at a million dollars . . .

My student debt. Gone. And I wouldn’t owe anything to my mother, to Nathan―

If I accepted her offer, Nathan wouldn’t be able to hold anything against me.

My breath comes in harsh gasps. Before I’m even conscious of what I’m doing, I say, « Deal. I’ll help you. »

She breathes out a sigh of relief. I feel a prickle of apprehension.

What would have happened if I had said no ?

Instead, I duck back under the yellow tape, not waiting for her to follow me as I show her a painting done by Marai Clair. Nine hundred thousand dollars, starting point.

« It’s called the Rogue Sailor, » I say, motioning to the stormy red sea, the vague depiction of a ship frothing on the waves. For a moment, the moral part of me drags me back under. I’m taking paintings away from artists like me, who love to live and breath artworks, who worship this testament to beauty.

But the artwork isn’t being destroyed. Just . . . stolen. And auctioned. And sent away to whoever pays the most money.

It’s the thought of Nathan that tethers me to my confidence. Because if I can get this money, if I can escape him, I can be free.

I help Vittoria lift the Rogue Sailor off the wall. For something so valuable, it isn’t very heavy. But I know better―the value lays in the passion of the brushstrokes, the gift of the artist’s soul that was bestowed into this canvas.

As we sheathe the painting in a black bag―I’m wondering how exactly we can walk out of the museum, suspiciously carrying a rectangle-shaped garbage bag―a man appears behind Violetta.

His eyes are dark, hot. He is dressed in black . . . a uniform.

And he has a gun―pointed at my forehead.

I FREEZE.

Violetta turns around in an instant, her hand at her waist―going for a gun, I realize. But the moment she sees the man, she relaxes.

« Dominic, » she breathes, melting into him in a warm embrace.

He seems to understand that if Violetta trusts me, I’m not a threat. He holsters his gun and wraps his arms around her. For a moment, I’m caught in a tangle of something like―

No, it doesn’t matter to me that Violetta has a boyfriend, or a partner, or anything. I don’t care. She’s a stranger, someone I made a deal with. All I have to do is help her, and she’ll pay me.

Then why do I feel so sick ?

A hot match of fire is alight in my stomach as Violetta turns back to me. I wrangle a smile onto my face. Nothing to look at here. Nothing is wrong.

« Can we go now ? » I can’t stop the impatience from seeping into my voice. I don’t want to be here, and the frantic pulse of my heartbeat is dragging me into a state of panic. We can’t get caught. Not now. Not here.

I didn’t see before, but Dante has brought a cart with him, something that looks like it’s meant to carry luggage. Or stolen artwork. Laying on top of it, there are three orange vests.

Three neon orange vests. Worker clothes.

« What . . . are those for ? » I ask. I have a feeling I’m not going to like it.

Dominic’s eyes burn into my face, a withering stare. « To eat. »

Violetta grins. « Shut up, Dominic. Without her, we wouldn’t have known what to steal. » To me, she says, « This is how we get out. Nobody wants to confront someone who works here. »

« But look at us. We’re wearing dresses. We look like we’re guests. »

Dominic’s smile is more of a sneer. « Don’t you think I know that ? » And he pulls out two more black uniforms, similar to what he’s wearing.

« Are you telling me we have to change ? » I can hear the note of panic in my voice. « Here ? Now ? »

Violetta gives me a warm grin. I feel the twist in my pulse, the wrench in my stomach. I manage a smile back, but I can’t help the jealousy that sears, a living, breathing beast.

« Fine, » I say, unwilling to give Dominic any more ammunition. « Just turn around. »

Violetta gives me a wicked look. « Both of us ? »

I snatch the black jumpsuit and orange vest from Dominic, and pull off my dress right then. My body isn’t something I’m ashamed of, and if they want to watch―by all means, they can.

I pull off the straps of the shimmering silver dress, sad to see it go. The air is cool against my skin as I tug it off, pulling it down from my legs. Cold in the frigid air of this empty exhibit, I step into the jumpsuit.

But I can’t help but notice Violetta’s eyes. Looking almost . . . hungry, devouring my skin, my bare legs, the taut firmness of my stomach. I notice her eyes drift higher, to the sheer bra I wear, and it feels almost like a touch, that gaze. Holding my breasts with those phantom fingers, rubbing the soft skin.

I pull the sleeves of the jumpsuit on before she can see the peak of my nipples.

Dominic is completely uncaring as he rummages through the bag to see which painting we picked. I feel almost relieved. Whatever Violetta saw just now, the heat in her stare, it was reserved for me alone.

I don’t know if that’s a good thing.

I shrug on the vest. Dominic begins to fill the rectangular garbage bag with pieces of paper, or some kind of gauze. It transforms the obvious shape into something akin to trash. Then he loads it onto the cart.

Violetta begins to wriggle out of her dress, her fingers dancing behind her. She must be reaching for some kind of zipper.