Page 13 of Dante
"Sixty thousand is a generous offer," she says, professional mask sliding back into place. "But I'm not sure selling to you is wise."
"Because of your brother?"
She meets my gaze directly. "Partly. Marco has made his feelings clear."
"And yours?" I press. "What are your feelings, Elena?"
"Conflicted," she admits, that refreshing honesty again. "Your money would help the gallery. Help Sophia. But I've worked too hard to keep my business separate from... complications."
"And I am certainly a complication." I allow a small smile. "What if I told you the painting would hang in my private residence, not in any business location? That its purchase would be between a collector and a gallery owner, nothing more?"
She considers this, head tilted slightly. "I'd say you're still Dante Veneziano, and I'm still Elena Rossi, and nothing can change what those names mean in this city."
"Names are just sounds," I say, leaning forward slightly. "Legacy is just a story we tell ourselves. We can choose differently."
"Can we?" Her voice drops lower, something vulnerable flickering across her expression. "I've been trying to choose differently for years, Dante. And yet here I am, having dinner with my brother's enemy, discussing business that will inevitably become entangled with family politics I've spent my life avoiding."
The waiter approaches, clearing our plates, asking if we'd care for dessert. I order the panna cotta for both of us without consulting Elena, a small assertion of control that I half expect her to challenge. She doesn't, simply watching me with those expressive green eyes.
When we're alone again, I decide on a different approach. "Let's set aside the painting for now. Tell me more about your gallery's future. You mentioned young artists you're cultivating. What's your vision?"
The change of subject visibly relaxes her. She speaks passionately about upcoming exhibitions, a scholarship program she hopes to establish for working-class art students, her dreams of eventually opening a second location focused solely on sculpture.
I listen intently, asking occasional questions that demonstrate I'm following her plans. This is a familiar strategy. Showing interest in someone's passions is the quickest way to lower their defenses. But as she gestures animatedly, a light flush of excitement coloring her cheeks, I realize with some surprise that my interest isn't feigned.
I genuinely want to know about her vision, her struggles, the obstacles she's overcome. It's been a long time since I've been genuinely curious about another person's inner life.
"I'm boring you," she says suddenly, self-consciousness replacing enthusiasm.
"Not at all," I assure her. "Quite the opposite. Your passion is... compelling."
She studies me for a moment, as if trying to determine my sincerity. "Most men don't find business plans compelling, especially not art business plans."
"I'm not most men."
"No," she agrees softly. "You're definitely not."
The panna cotta arrives, delicate and trembling on the plate, topped with fresh berries and a light dusting of crushed pistachios. I watch her take the first bite, her eyes closing briefly in appreciation of the flavor.
"Try it with the berries and pistachios together," I suggest, demonstrating with my own spoon.
She follows my example, and a small sound of pleasure escapes her throat—a sound that sends unexpected heat through my body. I shift slightly in my chair, maintaining my composure.
"You have excellent taste," she concedes, taking another bite.
"In some things," I agree, allowing my gaze to linger on her face a moment longer than strictly polite.
She catches the look, a slight wariness returning to her expression. "Dante..."
"Finish your dessert," I say, giving her space again. "Then I'll have my driver take you home."
"I can call a taxi."
"You could," I acknowledge. "But you won't."
Her eyebrow lifts, challenging. "Presumptuous."
"Observant," I correct her. "You're curious about me, despite your better judgment. You want to extend this evening just a little longer, even knowing it's unwise."
