Meanwhile, in the dimly lit corridors of the gallery. Bianca and Silvana glided towards the private viewing room where Benito awaited. The room itself was a jewel box, adorned with elegant paintings and sculptures bathed in a soft, golden glow that seemed to emanate from the art itself.
Benito, a man whose late forties had only refined his taste, greeted them with a smile as smooth as a Florentine tablecloth. His keen eyes, however, immediately darted to Silvana, a flicker of recognition igniting within them. "Ah, Signorina Silvana, my dear! What a delightful surprise. And who might this be?" he inquired, his gaze lingering on Bianca with a touch of intrigue.
Silvana, a nervous flutter in her stomach, managed a smile. "Good evening, Signore Raffaelle. Thank you for coming on such short notice. This lovely lady," she said, stepping forward and gesturing towards Bianca, "is someone quite special. In fact, she's the very reason we have such exquisite works adorning your gallery walls."
A beat of surprised silence followed before a slow smile spread across Benito's face. His eyes darted between Silvana and Bianca, his curiosity piqued. "The anonymous artist? You don't mean..."
Benito, a moth drawn to a flame, approached Bianca with a mixture of awe and avarice. "This is a magnificent surprise, signorina!" he exclaimed, extending a hand as smooth as oiled marble. "A true pleasure to meet the artist behind these... sensations." His voice thrummed with a hint of barely concealed greed. "Your work has set the art world ablaze, a tempest of unique style and daring spirit. It speaks not just to the eye, but to the very soul!"
Bianca, the picture of veiled mystery, offered a hand in return, a hint of amusement dancing in her eyes. "Thank you, Signore Raffaelle," she replied, her voice a melodious whisper. "Your appreciation is a treasure in itself."
His gaze drifted to a particularly striking painting, a tempest of color and shadow unlike anything he'd ever seen. "This piece, for example," he breathed, gesturing towards it. "Powerful. Evocative. A gift, truly."
A flicker of genuine warmth touched Bianca's veiled features. "I am glad it resonates with you," she murmured.
Silvana, perched on the edge of her seat, observed the exchange with a smile. Benito's praise seemed genuine, his fascination with Bianca's work undeniable. Yet, a serpent of doubt slithered through her gut, she couldn't understand why Bianca said if she were to disappear...
'I mustn't lose her favor,' Benito thought, his mind already calculating the profit these paintings would bring. He continued his praise, showering Bianca with compliments, dissecting each piece and its emotional impact. Bianca, ever the enigma, maintained a facade of modesty, though her sharp mind saw through his avarice.
As their conversation flowed, the tension in the room seemed to dissipate, replaced by a sense of camaraderie. Silvana exhaled a silent breath, a flicker of hope igniting in her chest. But a shadow of unease lingered, a prickling sensation that refused to be ignored.
***
The night air hung heavy over the area, the scent of jasmine clinging to the cobblestones. Lorenzo and Enzo, were still seated in the car. Not a soul dared disturb the quietude of the witching hour.
Enzo, shifted in his seat, while he unconsciously caresses the skull. "It's quiet," he rasped into the microphone, his voice thick. "Not a single pigeon stirring on the Via Veneto."
Lorenzo, grunted in response. "Good. Stay sharp, cugino. Achille should be making his way through the gallery now."
***
Inside the opulent art gallery, shadows danced amongst the marble statues as Achille, like a panther, prowled the labyrinthine corridors. His footsteps, muffled by Persian rugs, were the only sound that dared break the hushed reverence. He leaned against the cool walls, his dark shape dissolving into the shadows like a phantom in the unsteady gaslight.
A crackle from his earpiece. Lorenzo's voice, a low rumble. "Approach, Achille. They should be in the private viewing room at the end of the hall. Stay alert."
Achille, his heart a drum solo in his chest, nodded silently. He rounded a corner, and there, a sliver of light spilling from a half-open door. A gasp escaped his lips. Framed in the doorway stood Bianca, her face veiled like a Renaissance courtesan. A single thought hammered in his mind: 'She is the he only one hiding her face... She must be the anonymous artist!'
***
Back in the sanctum of the private viewing room, Bianca's laughter, like a cascade of wind chimes, filled the air as she basked in the effusive praise of Benito, a man whose oiled hair gleamed under the crystal chandelier.
"Magnifico, signorina," he purred, his gaze lingering on Bianca's captivating form. "I eagerly await your next masterpiece."
Bianca, her smile as radiant as the sun, replied, "It would be my pleasure, Signor Benito. You will be the first to know."
Meanwhile, Achille, a silent predator, inched closer, his senses attuned to every murmur and movement within the room. He found a strategic alcove, veiled by a heavy tapestry, a perfect vantage point to observe their clandestine meeting. Through a sliver of an opening, he could hear their hushed conversation and could see them.
***
"Thank you, Signore Raffaele," Bianca purred, her voice dripping with genuine warmth. "Your insights are invaluable. Excuse me for a moment."
Benito, still caught in the throes of their artistic discourse with Silvana joining in, simply nodded. Bianca slowly slipped out of the room, her steps like a phantom ballerina.
Achille, a silent sentinel in his shadowy alcove, watched her every move. He waited until Bianca had put a respectable distance between them before emerging. He followed her discreetly, a panther stalking its prey, his form a blur against the marble walls.
As Bianca rounded a darkened corner, a hand shot out, a vice-like grip clamping onto her arm. She yelped, momentarily stunned, but offered no resistance. The familiar scent that had clouded his mind at the garden party overwhelmed him. It could only be...
"Bianca," he breathed, his voice a husky whisper as he pulled her into the alcove. Her eyes met his, and a flicker of something akin to relief danced within them. 'You finally found me, Signor Achille,' she thought.
Panic surged through him. The after-effects of the lingering scent were a haze. He clamped a hand over her mouth, stifling any potential scream. "Don't fight it," he rasped, his voice laced with a desperation he couldn't explain. "It'll only be worse."
' I wasn't planning on struggling.' Bianca thought as she averted his gaze.
His movements were swift and with his free hand, he produced a handkerchief from his pocket. It was laced with a mild sedative, a last resort he'd hoped not to use. Bianca offered no resistance as he pressed the cloth to her nose. The sweet scent filled her senses, pulling her into a comforting oblivion. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she slumped against him, a weightless doll.
"Enzo, Lorenzo," he murmured into his earpiece. "The artist is secured." He cast a glance at Bianca's face, now bathed in the soft glow of a nearby oil lamp. Why hadn't she fought? It gnawed at him, a discordant note in the symphony of their encounter. Almost... as if she wanted to be captured.
A crackle from the earpiece. "Excellent, Achille," Lorenzo's voice crackled back. "You should get her out. We'll handle the rest."
With a heavy heart, Achille hoisted Bianca into his arms and retraced his steps towards the back entrance. He deposited her gently in the back seat of his waiting car, her stillness unsettling. A frown marred her otherwise peaceful features. He slammed the door shut, a prisoner of his own making staring back at him.
He then slid behind the wheel, his gaze lingering on Bianca's face and he started the engine, the purr a stark contrast to the turmoil within him. As he sped away, Lorenzo started his engine as well and followed suit.