My eyes are glued to your figure. You mold into the environment, no one bats an eye, but there are details that give you away, like the tip of your shoe being not as the original, even tho the iconic red sole looks the same. Or your tight black dress which looks oh too similiar to that of a lady that complained to me last night about how she lost her luggage. The Chanel earrings not real gold or silver... the list goes on and on.

But most importantly... you're not on the list. You weren't invited.

How did you get in here? How on earth did you manage to find your way into this highly guarded, private, art exhibition, my art. Half the men here are connected to the mafia, the other half their wives and escorts. And while you pretended to be just one of them, I saw right through you.

My feet make their way over to where you're standing, holding a glass of champagne but never drinking, "Are you here to buy one of my paintings?" I ask nonchalantly as I stop right next to you, looking up at the same painting that you're looking at.

It's relatively huge with an intense black background and silver splashes all over it. The silver is real, I took me many years to figure this technique out and it became my staple. Real silver on my art, may it be as highlights in the eyes of a portrait, or just splashes all over. The more I use, the better I can sell it. This one costs half a million... that girl can't even afford a quarter of it. So what is doing here?, I think as I glance over to you.