Chapter 2 The artist

“Hmm...” Isabella Vinci dipped her finest brush into a small pot of rich, amber-colored varnish, trying to steady her hand frok the excitement. Seven years in the business and the excitement of restoring an art is still there.

Before her sat a late 19th-century console table, the once-elegant leg now seamlessly rejoined. This was her sanctuary. Whatever her father said about it doesn't matter as long it did its job.

The thick and golden late afternoon sunlight streamed through the large, grimy windows of the gallery, illuminating dancing dust motes, and arts lined up on the walls. The only sounds filling her ears were the gentle scratch of a woodworker’s plane, the busy street outside, and the low sound of the radio playing an old love song. It was a Tuesday, perfectly, blessed Tuesday, the day she usually gets the best arts to restore, and the biggest pay.

She was broke, that wasn't even something new, the gallery brought in less income that restoring arts and she's never been so grateful to herself for switching courses.

She paused to take a breath and stretch her hand when the blast of a gun shit rippled through the air like water and she lunged forward, falling on the art frame, seeking cover. It was more like a string of firecrackers, a rapid, repeated pop-pop-pop that made her look up her cover behind the show glass housing a couple of other art works.

“What the fuck what that?!” She turned to Fabrizio, the old master restorer whose workspace was next to hers, he was crouching right beside her with a tired look.

“Okay, you look like this is a normal thing, Fabrizio.” She looked at him for answers, wiping the sweats breaking out if her forehead with her paint stained napkin.

“I'm sure you were not told when you got this place for the gallery, Bella. This is Sicily, for a man my age, I've seen more than this. I just hope the family is safe.” He continued as people ran away from the building in panic, all cars either speeding past or reversing.

Isabella's heard things about this place before she got it, and Sicily is her home, she knew just how high the crime rates was but daylight robbery wasn't one of them.

It's freaking four pm.

“Well, I'm calling the cops. I don't care.” With the brush still between her finger. She set it down and reached for her phone, thumb ready on the numbers, when a high pitched panicked scream burst from the street outside. And she moved back a bit, the sound made her stomach drop.

“What the fuck?”

The love song on the radio was abruptly cut off by a frantic news bulletin, but no one was listening. Fabrizio was already moving toward the front of the studio, his faces etched with a dawning dread.

“That's not a fucking robbery, Fab. Oh my God.” Her hands shook as she tried to dial the emergency number. Her heart thumping.

The frantic, panicked slap of footsteps on the cobblestones right outside their heavy glass door continued as a woman’s yelled into the street with panic that turned Isabella's blood to ice, “Aju!!”

Her own breath caught in her throat. She dropped the phone after the call and stood up, the varnish splattering unnoticed on the worn floorboards, and rushed to the door, joining Fab and the passerbys who rushed into the gallery for cover, fumbling with the handle.

The house where the sound came from was directly across the narrow street. A beautiful, three-story house, whitewashed with vibrant blue shutters and flower boxes overflowing with red geraniums. The she knew the family who owned and lived there, they usually send their kids over with snacks for her. Elena and the little one called Sofia, maybe six years old, who would sometimes sit on the front step and draw with chalk on the pavement. Now, the bright red front door was hanging open, splintered around the lock, a dark, gaping mouth.

A man stumbled out onto the top step. It was Giorgio. He was wearing a nice suit, a light gray one, and for a dizzying, hopeful second, Isabella thought he was just leaving for a late meeting and the gunshots was from another place, or maybe... maybe a movie, then she saw the dark, blooming stain on his crisp white shirt, just over his chest. It spread like a grotesque flower, soaking the fabric. He took one wobbling, disoriented step, his hand clutching at the air, and then collapsed face-first onto the stone steps, his body tumbling down to the pavement with a sickening thud.

A collective, sharp gasp went through the crowd. And Isabella let out a soundless scream, clutching her chest at the sight. She took a few steps back, holding the showglass just in time to catch herself from falling.

If Giorgio was dead then... then what about the wife and daughters.

Oh God! Oh God! She covered her mouth to stop herself from screaming.

Almost immediately three men walked out of the building, crossing over Giorgio's still body. They were dressed identically in dark, nondescript clothing—black trousers, black jackets. But it was their faces, or lack thereof, that stole the air from Isabella’s lungs. They wore masks, not the crude stockings or ski masks of common thieves, but sleek, black, featureless masks made of some matte material, there was no features in sight not even their eyes. They hid everything, erasing any hint of humanity, turning them into anonymous, walking nightmares.

One of them, slightly taller than the others, paused on the step, his head tilting as he looked down at Giorgio’s body. He said something to the other two. Another one shrugged and nodded afterwards. She didn't know what was being said but it's sure as hell not a good thing.

The first one casually wiped a gloved hand on his thigh and the second one scanned the street, his gaze hidden as he did a predatory sweep that passed over their door. Isabella ducked instinctively, yanking on Fabrizio’s arm, pulling the older man down below the sill with her.

“Don’t let them see you,” she whispered, sounding terrified. Her heart was a wild bird beating against her ribs. “Fabrizio, don’t look.”

The screech of tires, unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet that had descended on the street as a black sedan with its windows tinted to an opaque black, pulled up to the curb with a jerk. The doors swung open. The men got in, one, two, three, without a single glance back, the car door slammed shut with a solid thud, and the sedan sped off, the engine growling as it disappeared into the streets.

As if on cue, the air was torn apart by the approaching wail of sirens, growing from a distant whine to an ear-splitting scream. People began to tentatively emerge from their shops and homes, their faces were pale masks of shock. The studio around Isabella erupted into a panicked babble as everyone filed out, including the ones in here.

Isabella couldn’t move. She stayed crouched by the door, her legs refusing to support her. She stared, unblinking, at Giorgio’s body on the pavement, at the dark, glistening pool that was slowly, inexorably, widening around his head. Her eyes drifted to the little girl’s pink bicycle, still leaning innocently against the side of the house.

Fabrizio put a shaking hand on her shoulder. “Isabella? Stai bene? Are you okay?” His voice was thin, reedy with fear.

She nooded, heaving in and out. The sirens were right outside now, the red and blue lights of the police cars painting the white walls of the studio in frantic, dizzying strokes. Officers shouted, barking orders and each other. But all Isabella could hear was the echo of those calm, unhurried footsteps on the cobblestones, and she could only see the chilling, featureless void of those black masks, burned onto the back of her eyelids.