Angel's Mafia (gxg) ✓

| VI | A Gala To Remember

A WOMAN, LAUGHING. CHERRY-red mouth. Golden eyes.

"I can show you how to play."

"As you'll see here, if you're following, Artemisia Gentileschi's painting of Judith Slaying Holofernes is quite different from other artists of this time. What differentiates Artemisia's version of this Biblical story from Caravaggio's?"

I lean my head onto her shoulder.

Smooth skin. The velvet straps of her black dress, warm against my cheek.

What is she saying? Her mouth opens.

Closes.

"Right, this next slide will show you Artemisia's rendering of Susanna and the Elders. Done when she was just seventeen years old, what do you think makes this particular painting so special? Dante Rosso, if you will."

Marble floors.

Silver moonlight, gleaming. Pillars of white stone and granite.

Museum―this is the museum.

What am I doing in the museum?

The woman is here. She's with me, holding my hand. Why is she here?

She's whispering, whispering in my ear.

What is she whispering?

"That's a good point, Signore Rosso. Alessandro Allori's version of Susanna and the Elders makes Susanna looks young, docile, impressionable. Artemisia paints Susanna very fierce, struggling. And why is that such a strange thing in this era . . . Signorina Conti?"

I hear my name and snap out of the flashbacks. What was real and what was a dream? I can't tell anymore.

What did the professor just say? Shit. Shit. A few people in the rows in front of me turn back. I catch the smirk of a boy―roguish. Wicked. Handsome.

Too bad I'm gay.

"Could you repeat the question, please?" I ask with the most dignity I can muster.

"What was so interesting that you didn't hear it the first time?" says Professor Luneta.

"Unless it was you that wasn't interesting enough to listen to in the first place?"

Shit. What is wrong with me?

Sometimes I think I need a good swing. Or kick. Or whatever will get me to shut my mouth. I don't even care if it's tape at this point.

Well, at least you know the story of how I got kicked out of my lecture.

FOR THE PAST WEEK―or five days, whatever counts―I've been trying to figure out what the hell I did on Saturday night.

A heist. A heist.

Could it be possible?

No. No. Unless―no.

That time with Nathan―it didn't count. It wasn't the same.

Still, I can't shake the thought of that painting out of my mind. The Desperate Dancer. The arched neck, the impressionistic strokes. Could I have smuggled that out of the museum? If I were to pick something to steal, it would be that.