Portrait of a Killer (In the Spotlight #2)

Chapter 1

Victor

I’ve dreamed of revenge for so long, but I can’t believe I’m about to go through with my plan. The balaclava is so tight over my head I regret not trying it on earlier, but that shows my lack of experience in breaking-and-entering.

I’d ask ‘what the fuck are you doing, Victor?’ but that ship has sailed a long time ago, and so has my sanity.

All I know is that I hate Sevastyan to my very core, and tonight I will expose his lies to the world.

He goes by his first name only . ‘Sevastyan’ .

Like Beyoncé, or Adele, and all the other celebrities whose fame made the use of their last name obsolete.

How pretentious. And the art world eats it up because, of course, who wouldn’t love a mysterious reclusive artist with the face of a fallen angel?

Me. That’s who.

Like many people, I was fascinated by the artist who painted self-portraits without ever showing his face.

But when he finally revealed his whole self, our paths converged in the most unfortunate of ways, and he became my number-one enemy.

His pictures might show him as handsomer than even the most beautiful leading men of Hollywood, but I know that his soul is rotten.

I hate Sevastyan. And those dark feelings go so far and deep I don’t know who I’d be without them.

I suppose I’ll find out tonight.

I’ve been watching the gate leading to his property for weeks now, and I’ve noticed that it only opens for the truck delivering a fortnight’s worth of supplies.

As I drive by, performing the ritual that’s become part of my daily schedule months ago, I expect to see the big retractable door fully shut. But it’s not.

I almost drive into a tree from the shock, but when I do a double-take, convinced it was a trick of the light, the gate is still open.

Well, cracked open would be the more accurate description, but a man as slender as myself could easily use the gap to get past the tall fence topped with barbed wire, entering Sevastyan’s kingdom, where he’s defenceless.

I wanted to be prepared for an opportunity like this, so the backpack with my gun and other supplies is ready in the trunk.

I can’t believe my luck as I approach the ominously modern cliffside villa.

It doesn’t look like much from up here, just a large brick of concrete and glass surrounded by dense Pacific-Northwestern woodland, but I’ve seen Sevastyan’s house from the ocean too.

That thing is like a massive axe head stuck in the cliff.

I wonder if it’s even legal to use natural rock formations this way, but an artist as prolific as Sevastyan might be able to grease some palms for the sake of his ugly architectural fantasy.

What do I know? I’m a twenty-two-year-old guy with a shitty job that barely allows me to afford the paint I need. I work two jobs and have to live on ramen while the place I’m about to break into is worth millions .

I’ve looked it up online obsessively. Sevastyan has never let anyone photograph the interior, he’s never done a tour of his studio, or posed shirtless next to canvases featuring his self-portraits.

That’s how I know he’s full of shit.

Anyone as stunning as the man in his self-portraits would flaunt that beauty at gallery opening nights and charm collectors into spending even more than they already do. He must be a guy like any other, and I will expose him to the world.

I crouch in terror when lightning slashes through the thick clouds. My hands hit the soaked grass of the manicured lawn to the side of the house. It’s nighttime, and I’m wearing black, but he might still spot me.

I wait several seconds, rain drenching my sweater, then make a run for it, straight for the front door.

I expect it to be locked, but it retreats the moment I gently bump my knuckles into it, soundlessly swinging aside to reveal a massive foyer.

Slate tiles line the floor, then climb the bases of concrete columns surrounding the interior.

In the middle, under a dome roof overflowing with rainwater, sits a decorative boulder partially covered by different types of moss.

All I can hear is the aggressive tap of droplets on glass.

I’ve got goosebumps, but there won’t be another chance like this, so I grip the gun and make my way forward in careful steps. My heart is beating out of my chest, but I have only one goal right now.

I will abduct Sevastyan and take photos of his real face. Then, I will reveal him to the world for the fraud that he is. Hell, maybe I’ll even throw a few punches and add a broken nose to the image reveal.

I have a whole notebook filled with the violent fantasies of what I’d do to him given half the chance, but now that the dream is becoming reality, I’m not sure if I’m capable of inflicting torture.

I just… I just want him to suffer. I want him to know what it’s like to feel small, ugly, and insignificant. Like he made me feel.

For once, our roles will be reversed.

I freeze when lightning cuts through the sky once more, because for a moment the dark house becomes so bright I fear my presence has been discovered.

The growl of thunder puts me at ease. With the noise of the rain, my movement will be harder to hear.

I look around, trying to guess where I’ll find the man who deserves everything that’s coming for him.

Dark glee eases the anxiety gripping my chest, and I move, trying each gray door in my path. I’m surprised to find them all locked, but when the hallway leads me straight to a staircase, I follow it without thinking, my steps in sync with the waves crashing against the cliff below.

And there it is, artificial light coming from the very end of the corridor lined by yet more doors.

I’m shocked that I’ve actually done it, that I managed to sneak in where no one else has been able to. I half expect a pack of Dobermans to rush out from behind the corner, teeth bared and ready to maul me. Nothing like that happens.

It’s only me and my desperately pounding heart.

The glow coming from under the half-open door ahead beckons me closer, and I swallow, my feet rolling over the concrete floor. Maybe he’s fallen asleep over a book? Maybe this whole abduction plan will be easier to carry out than I could have anticipated?

I’m out of my mind. What am I even doing? Has my obsession really reached the point at which I’m ready to point a gun at my nemesis, tell him to kneel, cuff him, and—

A squeak makes me turn abruptly just as I enter the next corridor, but all I spot is a rat skittering away.

I didn’t expect a rodent in this pristine house, but I guess even millionaires aren’t immune to pests.

I bet someone as reclusive as Sevastyan wouldn’t be happy to have a team of exterminators running around and taking covert photos.

Which does make me wonder whether he cleans this whole place himself, but I’m not here to ponder his habits.

I didn’t pay much attention to the art upstairs, but when my gaze slides over the massive Rylsky that sold for millions last year, my hand trembles so violently I almost pull the trigger.

Maybe I should have spent more time at the range, but it’s too late now. Hopefully, the threat of the firearm will be enough to subdue the bastard who destroyed my one chance at a different life.

A life like... this.

I turn on my heel, about to face the door, but my heart freezes in my chest when I find the doorway filled by a tall silhouette.

The warm glow I’ve seen earlier now frames his form while his features remain in shadow.

He’s unarmed, but the casual way he’s standing has my body hair bristling.

He’s not even bothered to put down the goblet he’s sipping from, as if intruders like me are his bread and butter.

I flinch, raising the gun when he touches the wall, and a bright light comes on near-instantly.

I should be worried about him getting a better look at me, but I’m too stunned as I stare back at him.

He’s… breathtaking .

Leonardo da Vinci himself would have sacrificed a finger from his favored hand for a chance to paint features so harmonious.

This must be an illusion. People like him don’t just walk among the rest of us mortals. Even celebrities, who appear perfect on screen or in magazines, have filters and photoshop to thank for, yet... here he is.

A demigod who somehow appears capable enough to take down a raging bull and recite poetry as the patron saint of beauty and art himself. He’s perfectly proportioned, with the features of an ancient Greek statue and eyes like shards of ice.

A picturesque strand of dark brown hair falls over his raised eyebrow as he cocks his head, watching me expectantly. He’s even wearing a black shirt like in one of his famous paintings, complete with rolled up sleeves and the top three buttons open.

Maybe I’m not really in his home? Maybe I’m having a nervous breakdown in the back of an ambulance, and my consciousness has retreated to the safety of my revenge fantasy?

My hands tremble, but I aim the gun at him. “On your knees,” I choke out, not even recognizing my voice through the rasp and the balaclava. I’ve replayed this in my head so many times, but now that fantasy has become reality, I’m adrift.

Sevastyan—or perhaps this is simply his favorite model whose identity he’s stolen?

—finishes his wine, then drops the metal goblet to the floor, brows drawn in a frown that’s just as perfect as any other expression he could possibly make.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, and even his Russian accent makes my heart skip a beat.

I’m at loss. I’ve broken into his house. I’m pointing a gun at him. My pulse thuds in my ears as if the monster inside is trying to get out, and Sevastyan is standing there without a single worry.

I’m about ready to pull the trigger simply because of how angry he makes me. As if I’m not worth acknowledging despite having the means to kill him right this very second. As if someone like me is incapable of being terrifying.

“Are…are you not afraid?”

I can’t believe it when he chuckles, eyes shining with amusement as he takes another look at me, still as relaxed as ever. “Of what? Nobody knows you’re here, and you have no family to report you missing.”

My stomach sinks. How does he know that?

What the fuck?

“I… I’m not bluffing. This gun is loaded,” I try as a chill climbs up my spine.

He steps back, surely about to slam the door in my face and then call the police, but I won’t let him.

I’ve dreamed of this for far too long to let uncertainty thwart me now.

I step forward, ready to sprint after him, even if it means having to use my own leg as a doorjamb. Something swishes, pain erupts in my calf, and I fall, my feet cut from under me.

I drop the gun with a yelp, frantic to save my face from smashing into the concrete. I flap my arm, trying to hold onto the wall, but it’s Sevastyan who grabs my wrist in a steel grip.

I cry out in pain, because before I even comprehend what’s happening, he’s slamming me into the floor, knee on my back.

This is bad.

So bad.