Elena’s POV

I swallowed hard, my throat clicking like a stuck lock. My mind raced in a dozen ugly directions.

Did he just say something about painting? And giving him what he wanted in private?

What if he didn’t mean my art at all? What if he meant my hands, my bones, some twisted mobster ritual?

For one ridiculous, cinematic second I pictured myself on my knees, begging him like a bad actress in a crime drama.

He moved toward the table, and when he turned around, he was carrying a sleek ...