"I know." I link my arm through hers. "Thank you for insisting. I've been wanting to see this since it was announced."
The exhibition space is dimly lit—necessary for the preservation of centuries-old paintings, but also perfect for Caravaggio's work. His paintings demand darkness, created in the chiaroscuro technique that made him famous: that dramatic interplay of light and shadow, of illumination emerging from void.
I stop at the first painting, a familiar rush of emotion rippling through me.The Beheading of Saint John the Baptist.
I've seen it before, years ago in Rome, but seeing it again feels like a jolt of lightning through my veins. The brightness of blood against the tile, the shadows encroaching, the green velvet of thewoman’s skirt… all of it is stunning. It’s always been one of my favorites, the brutality of it, the evidence of what a man will do for a woman he’s obsessed with, even a king.
"God," Annie breathes beside me. "It's even more incredible in person."
I nod, studying the painting. I could stand here for hours just taking in the one painting, and there’s several more to look at. As if the museum decided to keep similar topics together,Judith Beheading Holofernesis next. Judith’s face is calm as she saws through Holofernes' neck, her maidservant waiting with the basket. The blood is so red it seems wet. The darkness around them is so complete it feels like you could fall into it.
“You know I was never as into art history class as you were,” Annie says with a small smile. “But he was definitely one of my favorites that we studied.”
By the time we reachThe Seven Works of Mercy, Annie pauses, scanning the outside halls. “I’m going to go find a bathroom,” she says. “I’ll meet you back here, I want to see the rest of the exhibition, too.”
“Are you all right?” Worry instantly pricks at me, but Annie waves me off.
“I’m fine. I’ll be right back.”
I watch her go, making sure she's steady on her feet, then turn back to the painting in front of me.
This is another of my favorites. The light and dark technique is especially obvious in this one, and I step closer, studying it—the way he builds the darkness, layer upon layer, so that when the light comes it's almost shocking in its intensity.
"The chiaroscuro is remarkable, isn't it?"
The voice comes from behind me, low and smooth, with an accent I can't quite place— Russian, maybe, or Eastern European, but softened by years of speaking English.
Somehow, I know before I turn around. My body knows before my mind catches up—that same electric awareness, that sense of the air changing and becoming charged with something I don't have a name for.
I turn slowly, and I seehim.
The same man who was leaving Annie and Elio’s brownstone. He's standing a few feet away, hands in the pockets of an impeccably tailored charcoal suit, his eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. He's even more striking up close. The sharp planes of his face, the strong jaw, his full mouth… I feel my throat tighten, remembering what I imagined earlier. That mouth, so close to mine. His body over mine. His…
My cheeks flush, heat sweeping through me.
“It’s as if he uses light as a weapon,” the man continues, moving closer as his gaze shifts to the painting. “A brush used as a sword.”
I should say something. It’s rude to just stand staring, unresponsive. But my tongue feels thick, my mind blank except for the awareness of him standing next to me, close enough that I can smell his cologne. I smell cedar and bergamot, expensive and subtle, and my heart thuds against my ribs.
“Yes,” I finally manage. “A lot of his paintings have some feeling of violence, or revelation. But the technique is so beautiful that it softens the brutality. Light interweaving with dark.”
He turns to look at me, and the corner of his mouth lifts. "You know his work."
"I'm an art dealer." I lift one shoulder in a half-shrug, my voice remarkably steady. "It's my job to know."
"Ah." He extends his hand. "Alexander Volkov. I'm a donor here. Art is one of my passions."
Of course. The coincidence feels almost too strong as I reach out and take his hand. Like fate. I feel his palm slide againstmine, a hint of roughness to his skin. Not a tender, pampered man, then, and something about that makes me like him more, that heat blistering through me now. A rough man in an expensive suit is, it seems, something I’m attracted to.
His hand is warm, his grip firm but not aggressive. The touch sends a jolt through me that I absolutely do not want to acknowledge. I feel as if I’m holding onto a live wire, something that I can’t let go of. But I have to. I can’t stand here holding his hand forever; it’s already close to being in awkward territory.
“Mara Winslow.” I introduce myself as I pull my hand back, my heart still beating wildly in my chest. “I’m just visiting from Manhattan.”
"A long way from home." His eyes haven't left my face. "Business or pleasure?"
"Visiting a friend." I turn back to the painting, needing to break the intensity of his gaze. "But I couldn't miss this exhibition. Caravaggio doesn't travel often."
"No." He moves to stand beside me, both of us facing the painting now. "Too much risk of damage." He pauses, his gaze flicking back toward me. "Some things are worth the risk, though."
