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Artist

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Chapter 9: Artist (Anastasia's POV)

A deafening silence took over as we sat in the car, driving to the crime scene. 

Marshall wouldn't budge on anything to the point where I thought he was trying to trick me into not taking this case. Perhaps he thought if he put Dante in front of me, I would walk away from this case, but clearly, that didn't happen. 

He was adamant about Dante and me never leaving each other's side during this case; he wouldn't let me drive myself to the gallery either, insisting that we stay together. 

"Do you, Ms Vitalio?" Dante asked, snapping me out of my gaze. 

I tore my eyes from the window. "What?" 

"Do you have any leads?" he questioned. 

Letting out a breath, I tipped my head back. "No, not yet. Isn't that why we're going to the gallery? To find evidence where it all began?" 

"What made you so invested in this case?" 

"What do you mean?" 

"Since you found it so unreasonable that I wanted to work on it simply because I was intrigued, I expected you to have a more grand reason," he taunted, glancing at me. 

I stared at him blankly, annoyance surging through me again. 

He never lost an opportunity to agitate me. "Did the paintings speak to you?" he mused. 

"They did. In fact, it looked identical to one I painted of you, would you like to see it, Mr Rossi?" I lifted a brow at him. 

He looked at me. "You still have those when you look at me." 

"Excuse me?" 

"Serial killer eyes." 

"Yes, of course. It's hard not to imagine strangling you, I suppose I can't help that they show." 

"We haven't seen each other in a year, I'm glad to see everything is just how we left it," he muttered sarcastically as he pulled into the parking lot and stopped the car. 

I unbuckled myself. "Do as I say," I demanded, "you're not the one with a badge here. I won't bother stopping the cops if they decide to throw you out." Stepping out of the car, I entered the gallery, exchanging a brief nod with the head officer on duty. 

Twisting my hair back into a bun, I took out a pair of cherry red leather gloves from my pocket and slipped them on just as Dante brought out a pair of his own black leather ones. I hadn't intended to bring this specific pair with me, but this morning, I couldn't find my second pair. 

These were the first ever gloves I wore to a crime scene, the first gift Dante had ever given me. With no desire to look for his reaction, I walked further into the room and began taking a tour just as I had last night, retracing each of my steps. 

Dante slowly trailed behind me, each footstep of his echoing mine, our strides in sync. All paintings were still on display, but the body had been taken for a post-mortem report while forensic investigators collected samples within the area. At each painting, I would pause for several minutes. 

"Looking for anything specific?" Dante asked. His voice caught me off guard, and it wasn't until he spoke that I realized we were much closer than I thought. 

I could feel the ghost of his body against mine. If I moved even an inch back, I would crash into his chest. My muscles grew rigid as he leaned forward, his lips beside my ear. "What are you searching for, Ms Vitalio?" he whispered. 

"The artist," I said, keeping my eyes on the painting. "I'm trying to see if any other painting in this room could have been painted by the same artist." 

"Should we call for an expert? Or would you like to waste more of our time?" 

Rolling my eyes, I turned on my heels and faced him. "If you're not going to let me do my job, you're more than welcome to leave." 

"You're not doing your job," he argued, "it would save time if we called an expert to study the styles. In fact, Marshall will probably order that regardless." 

"Marshall will also ask us for our opinions. I need something to go off of, and I don't have the time to wait for experts. If you have any better ideas, go ahead. Investigate on your own." Moving away from him, I walked forward to the next painting in the corner of the room. 

My gaze drifted to the curtain dangling in front of the wall. As I peeled it back, I found a few jars of paint fallen on the ground, several paintbrushes scattered around, and paint splattered on the ground. I took in a breath. 

"They're the same shades," Dante said from behind me. 

It was hard to guess if the killer had painted the piece here itself before or after killing their victim. It was also entirely possible that he created the painting and then brought it to life but committed both acts here itself. 

I turned around and called for the nearest officer. "Do we know who the victim was?" I questioned. 

He shook his head. "We're still looking into it. No ID was on the victim." 

"Who owns this gallery?" Dante asked. 

"The place was rented out, but it's owned by a woman named Monica Coleman. She's missing." 

"It's possible she's a suspect," Dante concluded. 

"It's also entirely possible she's the next victim," I refuted, lifting my brows at him. I turned to the officer again. "Which way is the entrance to the attic?" 

"Behind this curtain, to the right, and up the stairs. We found it locked, but it's been opened." 

Stepping around the paint, cautious not to get any on my heels, I warily climbed upstairs. My steps slowed as I felt Dante's eyes on me. Stopping abruptly, I turned to him and moved to the side. 

His eyes came up to mine slowly, with a light smirk playing on his lips. 

"You go first," I said. Stepping up, his body brushed against mine as he moved forward, and I trailed behind him. 

He was definitely staring at my ass. Old habits die hard, don't they? 

Stepping into the room behind him, I lost my breath for a moment. The familiarity of a studio like this hit me all at once. An art studio, that's what the attic was transformed into. And the art studio up here looked almost identical to... my own. 

Canvases, some with completed portraits, others with mere sketches and unfinished paintings, were sprawled across the room, some on the ground, some on stands. Broken sculptures were thrown around the attic while clay dried by the small window. 

It looked freakishly similar to my own studio, and the memories of that place, the ones I used to cherish, now only haunted me. I was suddenly aware of Dante's presence, and before I knew it, I was tumbling through all those memories engraved within every inch of my skin. 

An amused smile tugged at my lips as I kept my face hidden behind the safety of my canvas, stealing a peek over it at Dante. "Stay still," I said for the billionth time. 

He let out a sigh and leaned back, resting his elbows on his knees; the clay clinging to his fingers, streaked across his bare chest and torso, a few drops hitting his face. "It is awfully exhausting to be your muse, Mia Cara." 

I clicked my tongue in annoyance and tilted my head, looking past the canvas. "Now you're just doing it on purpose." 

"I'm taking a break," he announced, standing up and grabbing a spare cloth to wipe off his hands as he made his way to me. "The fumes are getting to my head." His eyes drifted to the portrait I had been painting of him and the unfinished streaks of paint around the canvas. 

Setting my brush down, I rose to my feet and stretched my limbs, rotating my wrist. I took a quick glance at the room around me. "I like the sculptures you leave here," I told him, "I've always wanted to learn, but I'm not very good with clay." Glancing at his hands, I took them in mine, tracing the clay that had dried over his palms. "You were born with the hands of a sculptor, Mr Rossi." 

"I'll teach you," he said quietly, his hands drifting down my sides, settling at my waist. Backing me up to the small couch in the corner of the room, he turned us around and sat down, guiding my hips forward and tugging my thighs over his own, my legs around his. 

"Is this part of sculpting 101?" I mused. 

"Absolutely," he mumbled, tugging the straps of my dress down my shoulders. "And it's the most important part," he whispered against my lips. 

"Which is what exactly?" I stared back at him. 

"Find your muse," he said. Then he kissed me slowly, softly. His hands roamed across my body, knowing every inch by now while mine explored his like it was the very first time. For a moment, nothing around us seemed to matter. 

"Have you found yours?" I asked as we paused for a beat. 

"You have me sculpting again after nine years," he said, "I think it's safe to say I have." 

"Careful," I whispered, "this doesn't feel like something enemies would do." 

He held my gaze for several beats, silence passing between us. "I've never met a woman as difficult as you are, Anastasia," he told me, "if there's anyone worthy of the hate I have to give, it's you." 

Dante's next words brought me back to where I stood. "It would have been too difficult to carry a body through the gallery and up to this attic without someone else's help," he said, lingering in the doorway as I took a step further into the room, surpassing him. 

"It's not likely that the killer is working with an accomplice," I mumbled. 

"Unless the owner was an accomplice," he shrugged. 

"Stop assuming," I huffed, "for all we know, her body could be the one we find next." I eyed the floor. "It's too clean for a murder scene. With the number of knives in the body... blood should be somewhere in this room. We should call forensics." 

I spun around in a rush to get out of this room, but in my daze, I was too lost and didn't realize how close behind Dante was until I crashed right into him. He steadied me swiftly with his hands on my waist, our eyes colliding. 

For a little while, I truly had found my muse within him. Until he shattered that with everything else. 

Pushing his hands off, I stepped past him and released a breath as I went back downstairs, putting as much distance between us as I possibly could. 

I couldn't breathe around him; no amount of air was enough when he walked into the room.

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Chapter 9

Couples where one's an artist and the other is their muse... good lord >>

next ch: missing