Page 4 of The Capo & the Curator

Despite the opulence dripping from every nook and cranny, the room feels distinctly sterile. Like a museum exhibit, meant to be admired from afar but never truly inhabited. I can't resist a rueful snort at the irony—I, who have dedicated my life to curating the remnants of history, now find myself a specimen on display.

My gaze inevitably drifts to the antique writing desk positioned before the arched windows. More specifically, to the weathered book resting there. Dante's journal. The entire reason for this absurd hostage situation.

By all accounts, I should want nothing more than to be as far away from that damned book as possible.

And yet...

I can't deny the persistent tug of curiosity, that insatiable drive to unravel the unknown that's been the guiding force behind my entire academic career. The secrets within those pages are a siren call I'm finding increasingly difficult to resist despite my better judgment.

Heaving a resigned sigh, I rise to my feet and drift closer, fingers trailing along the intricately carved patterns adorning the journal's leather cover. It practically hums with potential, an entire world of revelations awaiting the person capable of coaxing them into the light.

That person is me. For better or worse, I'm uniquely positioned to decipher these codes, to lend my voice to the words Dante's grandfather took such pains to conceal. The very thought is enough to set my pulse fluttering.

"Get a grip, Evelyn," I mutter under my breath, giving myself a little shake.

Sinking into the plush desk chair, I carefully pry open the aged cover, my breath catching at the sight of those ciphers spilling across the pages—layer upon layer of cryptic symbols and codes, all woven into a breathtaking tapestry of mystery. It's dizzying, intoxicating, the ultimate test of my abilities.

My moral hang-ups begin to ebb away as I lose myself in the puzzle. I reach for a pen and a fresh legal pad, that familiar thrum of exhilaration coursing through my veins with each notation. For now, I can set aside my misgivings. Immerse myself fully in this mystery, as I've done with countless others throughout my career.

Minutes turn into hours as the ciphers dance before my eyes, their patterns gradually revealing themselves like an intricate tapestry unraveling thread by thread. A thrill races through me as a crucial detail emerges—a reference to the San Lorenzo Chapel, with its frescoes awash in Renaissance symbolism.

Could it be? My heart pounds as the realization takes root. This lesser-known historical site, nestled within the heart of Arcadia, may very well hold the key to deciphering the journal's mysteries.

Rising to my feet, I sweep toward the door, rapping my knuckles against the polished wood. "Guard! I require an escort to the San Lorenzo Chapel. Immediately."

There's a muffled shuffling from the other side before the door cracks open, revealing the impassive visage of my assigned watchdog. His brows knit together as he processes my demand.

"The chapel? I'm afraid that's not—"

"Not up for discussion?" I interrupt. "If you want me to continue making progress with this journal, you'll take me there at once."

He regards me warily for a beat before giving a curt nod. Within moments, I find myself being guided down the corridor. With each step, that delicious sense of anticipation builds, but then, I realize we're heading deeper into the compound instead of toward the exit.

"Where are you taking me?" I demand, digging in my heels.

He glances back, impassive as ever. "You'll see."

The answer becomes clear as we approach a set of intricately carved double doors. The guard raps his knuckles against the polished wood, and a gruff, all-too-familiar voice calls out, "Enter."

He ushers me inside, and I find myself again face-to-face with Dante Romano. At our entrance, he glances up from his seat behind his imposing mahogany desk, those dark eyes coolly assessing. A muscle ticks in his chiseled jaw as he sweeps an appraising look over me.

"Back so soon?" he asks with an infuriating smirk.

I draw in a fortifying breath, squaring my shoulders as I meet his inscrutable gaze head-on. "I've made some headway with the journal," I announce, unable to keep the note of triumph from my voice. "It references the San Lorenzo Chapel and its Renaissance frescoes. I believe the artwork there holds clues to help decipher the code."

"Is that so?" He leans back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin as he regards me with newfound interest. "You continue to impress, Miss Hughes."

I bristle at the undercurrent of condescension, lifting my chin a fraction higher. "I need to examine the chapel's artwork up close. Immediately." I hold his gaze, daring him to deny my demand.

For a beat, silence stretches between us, thick with unspoken tension. Then, he rises fluidly to his feet with that insufferable half-smile. "Very well. I'll accompany you."

My brows knit together as I process his words. "You? But I—"

"Can't expect me to allow you to wander Arcadia unaccompanied, now can you?" he cuts in smoothly, already rounding the desk. "Not only for the obvious security concerns, but I have a vested interest in seeing this through. That journal is a priceless piece of my family's legacy, after all."

The protest dies on my lips as his reasoning sinks in, as much as it galls me to admit it. Of course, he wouldn't simply allow me the freedom to roam about the city, not with the stakes so high. And he has a point about the journal—it's his birthright, in a sense.

Still, the prospect of spending extended time in his company is unsettling, to say the least. My stomach gives a strange flutter, one I quickly dismiss as mere apprehension.

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