I stared down the limestone steps that led into black emptiness. "Artie, what's down there? Where does it go?"

"Just go. You will see." Artemisia kept her eyes on the beaded doorway that led back out to the coffee shop. "After all this, you do not trust me?"

I rubbed at my shoulder and looked at Desirae. She shrugged and ducked through the dark opening first. Reluctantly, I followed. As Artemisia pulled the painting back over the doorway, darkness completely enshrouded us.

Dank wet stone filled my nose the further we went. Desirae's fingers laced with mine as she reached back to guide me down the last step.

Artemisia's hand pressed against my back. "This leads to the old catacombs beneath Sousse."

I stopped. "Catacombs?" There was a strange hum, almost like whispers, reverberating through the walls.

"Yes, but we are not going that deep. Just a little more."

Past Desirae's pinned up locs, a pink neon arrow glowed into focus, pointing to the left. As we turned, the pitch black hallway opened up to a huge underground chamber. Disco balls sparkled beneath flashing colored lights, highlighting a dance floor full of faces.

But no music played.

Instead, the young people who filled the floor wore headphones, dancing and talking quietly to one another.

Where we stood at the entrance, a woman with short dark hair and chiseled features stood next to a table with dozens of headphones. Artemisia stepped past us and hugged the woman, exchanging pleasantries. She gave her the envelope from Mariem then grabbed two pairs of headphones.

Artemisia slid a set over my ears, then Desirae. An electric pop remix of Shik Shak Shok pumped through my head. Groups of women on the dance floor writhed to the beat, rolling their hips and dancing in sync. Across from them, women sat close to one another at a bar; some held hands, a pair were kissing.

For a second, I forgot we were in Tunisia.

"It's a silent sapphic disco," I stated.

Artemisia's eyes glimmered beneath the flashing lights. "Yes, women mostly, but everyone queer is welcome. I wanted to curate a place where we could be safe here."

"You organized this?"

"I bought the coffee shop, the whole building, a few years ago. Hopefully, the first of many."

"It's brilliant," Desirae murmured.

It truly was. Watching these women freely be themselves warmed my soul. My eyes wandered away from the crowd back to Artemisia. She continued to surprise me.

"This was where you wanted us to go to escape your family," I realized out loud. "Was this where you were hiding out when you were dead?"

"For some time, yes. There is a studio above the shop." Artemisia grabbed a pair of headphones for herself and slipped them onto her head. "But I had obligations back in Sicily."

Before I could ask her what she meant, she had grabbed Desirae's hand and mine and was dragging us into the middle of the dance floor. Women of all ages surrounded us. Bodies pressed against mine. In a booth a few steps up from the floor, the DJ waved to Artemisia. The music began to pick up and I recognized the first few chords of an old Sicilian folk song mixed with new electro beats. Artemisia drew a smile out of Desirae with a twirl.

"Bedda, you need a drink?"

"I think I better just stick to water," Desirae answered. Her eyes hadn't stopped scanning the perimeter.

"I'll grab it," I offered, but Artemisia took my hand and placed it on Desirae's waist.

"No, no, you stay. Both. Stay."

We listened, but we both watched as she slipped through the crowd towards the bar. She went behind the counter, giving hugs and kisses to the two bartenders.

I turned back to Desirae. "She's going to be a minute."

She nodded, glancing towards the entrance.

"Hey," I cupped her cheek and gently turned her to face me again. "We're good. Relax."

"Kirby, this isn't like the States."

"Where any second some MAGA touting maniac can walk into a gay bar with an automatic rifle and spray us with lead?"

Desirae tipped her head. "I'm not saying you don't have a point, it's just dangerous being out like this over here. It's just a constant reminder of why I moved to the States in the first place. I'll relax when I'm back on American soil."

As she looked past me to find Artemisia, I studied the soft curve of her lips and her nose in profile. Those ever watchful brown eyes, hidden beneath her long lashes. She was constantly looking out for both of us. Without her, I don't know where I would have ended up. Probably back at Georgiy's villa with a bullet in my head.

"I'll go with you."

She peeled her eyes away from Artemisia at the bar to find mine. "What?"

"Back to America." My fingers tapped to the beat against her hip. "And you can have your girlfriend at the CIA hack Georgiy's phone."

"She's not—" Desirae rolled her eyes with a smile. "What made you change your mind?"

I shrugged. "You trust me even after all the dumb shit I've put you both through. And you said you could get me help or whatever. Besides, your cat probably misses me."

She softened and stepped close against me. "He probably does."

The music slowed to a more sensual Afro-beat. We moved together with it guiding our hips and feet. As my hands ran over her body, the tension in her muscles released. Her dark umber eyes remained fixed on mine. Over the last couple days, she had witnessed all the bad sides of me, but still saw me as good somehow.

I kissed her softly, not wanting to push her boundaries with feeling safe here, but as I started to pull away, her fingertips dug into the back of my hips to keep me close. Our bodies continued to grind and sway to the music as she deepened the kiss. Even as Artemisia finally came back, we barely pulled away from each other.

Artemisia just smiled and handed us each a glass of clear liquid that definitely wasn't water.

"Just one drink, Desi," she insisted, handing it to her. "For all of us."

Desirae groaned, but accepted it regardless. I raised mine to my nose. Sweet and nutty. "What is it?"

"Boukha, the national drink of Tunisia."

"All right," Desirae raised her glass. She rubbed her lips, still giving me that look. "May we all survive. Each other. Salute, cin cin."

We each clinked our glasses together. The liquor rolled hot over my tongue, both sweet and earthy. Figs, I figured out after my second taste. I downed the rest of mine pretty quick while Artemisia sipped at hers, staring between me and Desirae. She knowingly took Desirae's glass, and finished it for her, sliding the empties down the closest counter.

"What's the plan for tonight, Artie?"

"No more plans, just dance."

And so we did.

Shortly after midnight, we found ourselves feeling along the walls of the pitch black catacombs back up to the shop. Mariem had locked up. Youssef was gone. A door through the back of the shop remained open, leading into a quiet alley. Artemisia led us around the back to the studio's stairway with a new envelope in her hand and a ring of keys.

She unlocked the door and clicked on an antique floor lamp that just barely lit the room. But enough lighting filled the space, washing over at least fifty canvases strewn about, on top of furniture, leaning against the fridge. Some finished, others barely started. Some just quick studies or gestures of people, others complex with hours of layers. It reminded me of the old photographs of Picasso's studios where he would just leave his art behind and move to a new villa when they got too full.

Artemisia hurried over to the bed and leaned some paintings against the wall, tossing the envelope down on the blanket. "Sorry, it is a bit messy."

"It's very you," I murmured, looking around. An easel stood next to the only large window. There was just enough space in the corner for a model setup. "Not the messy part, I mean, just you."

I picked up some canvases from the floor, revealing an old burgundy rug. Desirae wandered past me over to the bed to help clear it off, but Artemisia took the paintings from her and leaned them against the others. A small hand crafted table sat next to the bed. In a corner, four wooden legs stuck out from a couple canvases. I assumed there was some type of loveseat beneath.

Desirae started flipping through the paintings along the wall where Artemisia had just leaned them. Paper rustled as Artemisia opened the envelope on the bed. I glimpsed over her shoulder seeing a wad of Tunisian cash. I wasn't sure how much, but hopefully enough to get the yacht fueled back up. She held up a phone just as Desirae gasped.

"Artie, what..." Desirae moved the paintings to the side. Her hand covered her mouth as she stepped back.

My heart began to pound.

Standing at least eight feet tall and six feet wide, a nativity scene with Saint Francis and Saint Lawrence surrounding Mary and baby filled a canvas. An angel flew above them.

It was one of the most sought after stolen paintings in history after its theft from a church in Sicily.

Artemisia laughed. "No, no. Just a replica. My own master copy."

I rounded the other side of the bed to Desirae who continued to stare at the suspected Caravaggio. I had read many articles about the theft while conducting my own research. The thieves had likely been amateurs who knew nothing about stealing art made hundreds of years ago. "They cut the painting from the frame and supposedly ruined it by rolling it up in a rug from the church. It would be cracked and..."

The closer I looked, I could see repair work. Torn edges of the painting had been carefully adhered to a new canvas.

Desirae finally looked away from the painting over to Artemisia. "It was rumored to have been passed from mafia boss to boss in Sicily. Maybe even in the hands of an Eastern European family."

"Or Russian..." I said out loud.

"Your faces," Artemisia continued to laugh softly. "It was meant to be a donation to the church. But another artist beat me to it."

Desirae and I exchanged glances, both still thinking the same thing.

"How were you able to replicate the cracks?" I asked, running my finger over the bumpy surface.

"There is a very large oven downstairs in the coffee shop." Artemisia tossed the phone onto the nightstand and lifted a pillow to her nose. She gave it a good fluff. "Come now, I am exhausted. I did not get to sleep like you both."

"Hmm..." Desirae turned away from the canvas and went over to the bed, pulling the sheets down. "Where did you happen to find a large enough piece of linen from the same century with the same weave and thread count?"

Artemisia sighed and dropped the pillow to the bed. "Sometimes sacrifices must be made in order to preserve history."

"Sacrifices?" I looked closer at the texture along the edge. It was difficult to see in the dim lighting, but Desirae was right. "You stripped another painting from the 1600's to use its canvas." My mind flashed through some of the pieces we had acquired over the years. But I wasn't smart enough—or stupid enough—to fuck around stealing work that big.

"So was it a replica for the church?" Desirae asked. "Or a commissioned forgery?"

It was my turn to laugh. "With all the ties between the Catholic church and organized crime, there's not much difference right?"

"Cu accatta abbisogna di cent'occhi. Cu vinni d'unu sulu."

I wasn't sure on the first half. Someone needing one hundred eyes versus someone only needing one.

"Who buys, needs one hundred eyes," Artemisia translated. "Who sells, needs only one."

"And here I thought you were just the mastermind," Desirae stated. Her eyes sharpened, cutting us up. "I keep underestimating you both."

I didn't doubt that Artemisia had the skills to paint a master level forgery. She had messed around with forging some smaller easy pieces in the past that I had been credited with according to my record.

But I also didn't doubt that she had the skills—and resources to repair the original.

Artemisia lifted her dress up over her head and tossed it onto the canvas in question. "No more interrogation. Unless it is between our bodies."