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“That would be great,” she whispered, touching her chest. “I’d love to donate more paintings to events like this if that’s the case.”
He didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or curse her for being overly generous. She’d been struggling to save enough money for California, yet she was willing to donate every penny that she’d earned from her hard work.
“We donate 10% of the proceeds. The rest goes to the artists.”
Another gasp. She whipped her head toward Vincent. “How much did you sell this for?” she asked.
He stepped forward and lifted the sold sticker. “Six thousand dollars.”
She shook her head slowly. “That can’t be right. I’m not a known artist.”
“This place is for unknown artists, and the benefactors spend more on the paintings knowing that they’re boosting an artist’s career.”
He watched as a tear fell from her eye, but something else caught his attention. Through the glass storefront, a blur of motion stormed down the street, another person chasing them. Vincent’s muscles stiffened. He couldn’t ignore it—even if it was nothing. He trusted that his guys were in the shadows watching everything, but ultimately, it was his responsibility.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” he promised her, not letting on that anything was amiss.
Still distracted by her painting and the room of paintings around her, she only nodded as Vincent turned and walked out the glass door.
19
Kiera felt and saw each painting with new appreciation. She didn’t dally long on her painting, knowing the motivation behind Vincent’s eyes ran deeper than any buyer would ever know. The other paintings in the room, though, were utter mysteries to her wondering gaze. She tried and failed to decipher some of the more complex ones, imagining that she needed a story to fully understand the intricacies within the paintings.
In the front of the room, she found some that asked to be analyzed. Some utilized circular strokes for parts and short strokes for others. She could imagine the painter making intentional decisions to relay a message, and if she stared at it long enough, she could finally understand.
So she did.
She tried to understand why the colors of the earth and the sunset were flipped in one of the very expensive paintings. It fascinated her, and as long as she looked at it, the message remained fuzzy.
But there was a message within the art.
Kiera realized that this was the reason she had fallen in love with art—the meanings and hidden intricacies that could be found in any painting if she looked hard and long enough.
She made her way to the back of the room again, examining some of the lesser-acknowledged pieces and finding just as much joy in them as all the others. She briefly noted the passing of other patrons, some who stared at her with raised brows and some who paid her no attention.
The gallery had nearly emptied when she reached the art that bordered the back curtain—the piece she hadn’t yet viewed. A night sky, so similar to Van Gogh’s legendary work, yet so unique at the same time. Almost as if the stars drowned in a whirlpool rather than swirling mystically in the sky. Rather than the mountain, the artist had painted intricate hair, strands splayed wide as if floating in a current.
Amid her scrutiny, a loud crash jarred Kiera. She looked over her shoulder, past the pillars, and toward the glass windows, eventually recognizing the gunshot for what it had been. She gasped and stepped forward toward the gallery's glass entrance as the other patrons rushed to see what had happened. But before she could make a move, someone barged inside.
Vincent.
He looked battle-hungry, like a warrior ready to kill and maim. She could see the painting in her mind—the way she’d mimic his stony eyes and hard posture. But when he looked at her, his expression changed. His eyes widened, and the fear within them nearly stopped her heart. She looked down at herself, but she hadn’t been shot. She knew she hadn’t. She didn’t even feel a twinge of discomfort, but he looked at her as if she was dying before his eyes.
She opened her mouth to ask him what was wrong, but she didn’t have the chance to speak the words before she found herself jerked into a hard chest behind her. She tried to balanceherself—tried so hard to gain her footing as an arm wrapped around her collar bones, securing itself beneath her chin and pulling her painfully backward.
The noise that left her throat was something that she’d never heard from her. Kieradidn’tget afraid. She’d been in dozens of threatening situations, but in this one—with Vincent standing before her, his gun pointing at the floor before them—she felt pure, unadulterated terror swarming her chest.
He’d warned her before the event, she realized. Vincent had known that the man he hunted would try something, but she’d still allowed herself to grow distracted by the paintings. She tried to arrange her feet beneath her as the man dragged her back all the way through the curtain and the door beyond it until they reached the street behind the building. She coughed as his arm dug into her throat, tucked her chin to her chest, and did her best to stay upright.
She met Vincent’s eyes as soon as they stopped, and she managed to right herself. He looked between them, a look of cold rage replacing the terror in his eyes as cool metal dug into her scalp.
God, how had she gotten herself into this situation? Her breathing quickened as she rested both of her hands on his forearm, forcing it away from her throat. It only worked for a moment before he tightened it. Would something in her throat break if he squeezed harder? She struggled to draw breath, and the crushing pain had her wincing.
“She has nothing to do with this,” Vincent shouted at Krill, but Krill didn’t lessen his grip.
“She has everything to do with this,” he shouted, pressing the cool metal to Kiera’s head harder. She realized what he held to her head, though she couldn’t directly see it. A gun. “I might not be able to take your life, but I can take the only thing that matters to you before you kill me.”
Vincent’s voice took on a tone that she’d never heard from him and one that she hoped to never hear again. It was the voice of the mafia soldier. She finally understood the fear he invoked in his opponents, as when he spoke, she felt it in the deepest parts of her. “You think death is the worst I can do to you?” he asked. “Because if you don’t let her go, you’ll endure much worse.”
