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“Now, I’ll leave the rest of the evening in the capable hands of our lovely auctioneer,” he drawls, gesturing to me with a strong arm. His lips curl slightly in a knowing smirk as he lowers himself back into his seat. He clearly doesn’t recognize me, and knows I’m not the usual auctioneer, but he’s playing along.

Every gaze in the room turns in my direction, and it takes everything in me—including the fear of death—not to turn around and take to my heels. Instead, I send the room a wide smile and move closer to the artwork neatly arranged on a platform at the center of the room.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” I greet in a strong voice that hides my fear, and I gesture to the first painting. “This is a beautiful piece. It’s called ‘The Musicians.’” I don’t even need to read the title at the edge. At least my three years toward an Art History degree might help me out here. “It’s one of Caravaggio’s first paintings in the late sixteenth century…”

I know this piece—it was stolen years ago, and has long been thought to be lost. If this is authentic, and it seems like it is, then I understand why this auction is taking place at night and with armed guards.

Caravaggio was one of my dad’s inspirations as an artist, and he used to tell me stories about each of his paintings, so it’s easy for me to paint a fine story about the piece, talking it up a bit before starting the auction.

“If you want to own this beautiful piece of art, the bidding starts at…” I pause to read the price stuck at the base of the frame. “…Seven million dollars,” I call out.

Bidding starts to roll in, and I follow along as well as I can, amazed at how much people will spend to own a painting. I watch them, trying to imagine my dad among these people, in one of these plush chairs with one of those sparkling drinks in his hand.

The picture just doesn’t fit. He wasn’t a very social man, so if he was planning on coming to a gathering like this, it must have been for a very important reason.

“Ten million!” a voice calls out, cutting sharply into my thoughts.

“Twelve!” someone else counters almost immediately.

I wait for a beat, and when it seems like no one is going to go higher I slam the gavel against the block. “Sold!”

I smile out into the room as I shift the painting to the other side of the platform, grateful for the auction videos I’ve binge-watched on YouTube over the years.

Aside from being definitely illegal, this isn’t so bad.

My gaze keeps returning to my dark-haired savior, no matter how hard I try to look away. His steady and direct gaze gives me the courage I need to keep going.

I sell another painting, and I’m on the third one when a cruel-looking old man with a white scruffy beard and a sly gaze clears his throat loudly, interrupting my pitch. “How much do I pay to own you!”

I freeze, unsure of how to respond.Surely he’s joking, right?

Against my will, my gaze goes straight to him, my dark-haired savior, hoping for another miraculous rescue. But his expression is unreadable, and there’s an undeniable steeliness in his gaze that sends a shiver down my spine.

I swallow nervously and glance around the room, my heart dropping to my stomach at the expressions of sick excitement on the faces in the audience. They’re not laughing—they’re looking to the director of the auction for a real answer, as if there’s even a possibility…

Oh, dear. What have you gotten yourself into, Bella?

Chapter Two

Roman

I want to punch Sergio in the fucking face for suggesting to buy the girl.Dick-faced bastard.

Now, the whole room is contemplating the idea of owning the gorgeous redhead in the short blue-and-green sequin dress that hugs her curvy body in all the right places. There’s absolutely no doubt in the world that she’s drop-dead gorgeous. Her thick, curly red hair and those pouty pink lips affect me in a way no other woman ever has.

That’s where the problem lies.

From the moment I spotted her in the parking lot getting out of that badass truck, my mind has been a clusterfuck of thoughts. It was obvious that she doesn’t belong here—but it was also obvious that she was intent on gaining access to the building regardless. I couldn’t stop myself from helping her into the chapel, though I told myself I couldn’t get involved any further.

There’s something about the fierceness in her expression that reaches for a part of me I’m unwilling to give, unwilling to share with the world.

Life hasn’t been fair to a boy like me who grew up in the slums of Harlem with addicts for parents. I ran off to Seattle when I was fourteen, and got odd jobs in a biker bar where I sometimes slept. I used to sneak into the public school for classes, especially art, and that’s where I met Warren Flint—my best friend for most of my teenage years. Even when he went to an art college in New York and I remained in Seattle, we kept in touch.

It turned out that even though I’m a good artist, I enjoy dealing art even more. With my previous jobs in biker bars and other clubs, my connections and reputation grew in the criminal underworld. And that’s how I met Lucian Devereaux, who hosts the art auctions here at the chapel. I wouldn’t consider him a friend, but we have a lot in common and often exchange clients and artifacts.

My reputation precedes me, and my clients know not to fuck around with me. I might look sophisticated in my sleek suit and shoes, but I don’t suffer fools, nor do I let my friends die unjustly. I don’t have many of them, but the few I have are dear to me. And that’s why I’m attending this auction—to locate one of Warren’s paintings that has gone missing. I’m hoping it might lead me to a clue about his so-called suicide.

If his death was just a suicide, then why did his last painting go missing?