Skullduggery Book Two {sapphic thriller}

CHAPTER ONE

My fake-dead ex-girlfriend slowly stepped towards me, pinning me between her and my previous fling—who also happened to be her ex-girlfriend—who had also arrested her six months prior for art theft, money laundering, and conspiracy to murder among other things.

Pretty sure there's a Drake line about something like this.

"Artie," I choked a little on her name. My eyes darted over the red ruched satin of her dress, looking for any weapons hidden in its seductive folds. God, I had forgotten how good she looked in red. That deep, dark frappato wine colored red of love gone wrong. "I uh, wasn't expecting to see you tonight. Well, outside of your paintings, that is—in the flesh, I mean. Here in Sicily."

And free, I almost added.

A coy smile made the dimple in her cheek pop. "And miss my own opening?"

She was supposed to be in a jail cell, five thousand miles away with an ocean and a couple seas in between us. But instead, I could smell the floral notes of Chanel on her neck just inches away.

As Artemisia took another step forward, I tried to back up, but Desirae's firm hand found my lower back. I had almost forgotten she was behind me. She was never one to back away from a challenge, but I sure as shit was. With Artemisia blocking the doorway ahead and Desirae blocking the balcony behind, the sweeping gallery walls of the palazzo suddenly felt tight and claustrophobic. Every portrait on the wall seemed to leer down at us.

At me.

Again, Artemisia stepped closer, this time clasping my wrist. Her thumb slid up my forearm to stroke the wonky prison tattoo of a birdcage I had given myself years ago. She used to call me 'little bird' in Sicilian. As her blue eyes met mine, my mind blanked on the word and I didn't dare try to fly away.

"A cicchitedda told me you settled near Pozzallo," she said almost knowingly. "I wanted to find out for myself."

The way her voice still sent a rush of heat through me made me feel betrayed by my own body.

I tried to ignore her touch.

And Desirae's fingertips on my bare back.

In any other situation, the three of us could have had a wild night together. Artemisia's lips rubbed together like she knew exactly what I was thinking. Of course she knew what I was thinking.

Her red fingernails cut into my skin. "I want my money, Kirby."

I swallowed hard. "Right..."

$750,000.

Which wasn't all that much when it came to Artemisia and her family who were worth hundreds of millions. I didn't think she'd even notice that I had cleaned out our account after everything we went through six months ago back in Bay City. Her faking her death to escape her abusive husband who she ultimately had her father knock off. Her ex-girlfriend—not Desirae—using the dead bodies of her painting models to lure her out of hiding. Me and her almost becoming the final deadly composition until I smashed a junky sculpture into the ex-girlfriend's skull—again, not Desirae.

It was a lot. A lot I was still trying to process. Or more accurately, not process.

And I had assumed Artie would be processing or not-processing it all locked up in a cell without bail.

But apparently she finally agreed to testify against her mafioso father, a deal I was sure Desirae had something to do with since Artie knew where her family had discarded her husband's body—Desirae's husband's body, that is.

Again, it was a lot. If you need a better recap, there was a whole-ass book written before this one about it.

"We uh, should talk," I suggested. "Let's get some air."