Chapter 5 - Pigment and Blood
For the next two weeks, the penthouse transformed into a bizarre, high-stakes art studio.
A heavy wooden easel was erected near the floor-to-ceiling windows. Glass jars of raw pigments—lapis lazuli, burnt umber, lead-tin yellow—lined Gabriel’s sleek steel sideboards. The sharp, clean scent of turpentine and dammar varnish replaced the smell of expensive tobacco and leather.
Every night, while encrypted satellite calls rang out from Gabriel’s desk and heavy men in suits arrived to deliver whispered reports about Moretti's movements across the city, I sat under a high-intensity halogen lamp with a magnifying visor over my eyes, meticulously cleaning four-hundred-year-old varnish off the Venetian masterwork.
Gabriel was always there.
He sat at his desk ten feet away, working through spreadsheets, signing documents, or simply leaning back in his chair with a glass of scotch, watching me work.
He didn't disturb me. He didn't ask silly questions. He simply watched the precise, microscopic movements of my hands with an intense, quiet fascination that made my skin warm beneath my cotton apron.
At 2:00 a.m. on a Thursday, my hand trembled.
I was working on the Virgin's face, using a tiny cotton swab dipped in a weak alcohol solution to lift a layer of smoke damage without touching the original paint layer beneath.
My shoulder cramped violently from hours of holding the same position. The swab slipped.
I gasped, pulling back just in time to avoid dissolving a microscopic section of Mary's eye.
Before I could drop my visor, two warm, large hands rested gently on my shoulders.
"Stop," Gabriel's deep voice whispered right behind my ear.
His thumbs began to move in firm, deliberate circles against the tight muscle between my neck and shoulder blade. The heat from his palms soaked through my shirt, sending a sudden, electrifying shiver down my spine.
"Gabriel, I'm working..." I murmured, but my voice lacked any real conviction.
"You've been holding that swab for four hours without a break," he said smoothly, his hands working their way down my back, expertly unknotting the tension trapped in my muscles. "Even restorers need to breathe, Elena."
I leaned back slightly, resting my head against his chest. I could hear the steady, strong beat of his heart through his shirt. It was strange how a man who lived in a world of gunfire and blood could have hands so gentle, so unbelievably precise.
"Why haven't Moretti's men tried again?" I asked quietly, looking out at the glittering city lights beyond the rain-streaked window. "It's been three weeks. It’s too quiet."
Gabriel’s hands paused on my shoulders for a fraction of a second before continuing their slow, soothing motion.
"Moretti is losing his allies," Gabriel stated calmly. "I've bought off his harbor inspectors, seized two of his shipping containers in Rotterdam, and cut off his credit line in Zurich. He's bleeding money."
"You're destroying his empire," I realized, turning my head to look up at his sharp profile. "Because of what he did to my car?"
Gabriel looked down at me, his eyes dark and unreadable.
"No," Gabriel whispered, his fingers gently brushing a stray lock of dark hair away from my cheek. "Because he dared to put a mark on something that belongs under my roof."
My heart did a terrifying, wonderful flip in my chest. "I don't belong to you, Gabriel."
"Don't you?" he asked, his dark voice dropping into a dangerous, hypnotic hum. He leaned down, his lips lingering a breath away from mine. "You live in my penthouse. You burn my lights. You paint in my room. And every night, Elena, you look at me like you're trying to figure out whether to paint me or run from me."
Before I could answer, a sudden, loud alarm shattered the quiet of the penthouse.
Red emergency lights flashed along the perimeter of the ceiling.
Gabriel snapped back to full attention instantly, pulling me behind his broad back in a single fluid motion as his hand reached beneath his armpit, drawing a heavy black firearm from his shoulder holster.
The double front doors were thrown open with a violent bang.
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Tomas stumbled into the foyer, his face covered in blood, clutching a deep knife wound in his side.
"Boss..." Tomas gasped, collapsing onto the marble floor. "The garage... they bypassed the security grid... Moretti’s brother... he’s inside the building!"
