Page 19 of Dante
"I don't want to kill your brother, Elena. Despite what you may think of me, I don't solve all my problems with violence."
"Just most of them," I mutter, finally taking a sip of the drink. It burns pleasantly down my throat, steadying my nerves.
"When necessary," he acknowledges without apology. "But this situation requires a more nuanced approach."
"Which is what, exactly?"
He moves to the windows, looking out over the city. His city, in many ways. "Marco needs to be contained before he destroys himself and everything around him. Including you."
"And you're appointing yourself to this task out of the goodness of your heart?" I can't keep the sarcasm from my voice.
"No," he says simply, turning back to face me. "I'm doing it because it serves my interests. But that doesn't mean it won't also protect you."
His honesty, however brutal, is strangely refreshing. No platitudes, no false reassurances. Just the unvarnished truth as he sees it.
"You barely know me," I point out. "Why would you care about my protection?"
"Let's just say I recognize something worth preserving," he says. "You've built something genuine with your gallery. Something untouched by all this." He gestures vaguely, encompassing the violent world we both inhabit, albeit from different angles.
"And you want to keep it that way," I finish for him, still skeptical.
"Is that so hard to believe?"
"Yes," I admit. "Men like you don't protect things out of admiration. There's always an angle."
A slight smile touches his lips. "Perhaps. Or perhaps you don't know men like me as well as you think you do."
I drain my glass, setting it down with a decisive click. "So, what happens now? I just stay here indefinitely while you wage some shadow war against my brother?"
"For tonight, you stay here where it's safe," Dante says. "Tomorrow, we reassess the situation. My people will watch your gallery, ensure it remains secure."
"My gallery," I repeat, suddenly remembering the exhibition aftermath, the paperwork waiting for me. "I have commitments, Dante. I can't just disappear."
"You won't have to," he assures me. "But for now, you need rest. It's been a long night."
Chapter 7 - Dante
"You won't have to," I assure her. "But for now, you need rest. It's been a long night."
Elena stands by the window, city lights creating a halo effect around her silhouette. Even disheveled from the fight, with her dress slightly torn at the shoulder and a smudge of something dark—blood or dirt—across her cheekbone, she's striking. Not in the polished, manufactured way I'm accustomed to in women who orbit my world, but in a raw, unfiltered manner that makes it difficult to look away.
Her dark hair has come partially loose from its elegant arrangement, a wayward curl falling across her forehead that she absently pushes back with paint-stained fingers. Those hands—artist's hands—now slightly bruised at the knuckles from her improvised defense.
The contradiction fascinates me: those same delicate fingers that likely spent hours arranging perfect gallery lighting didn't hesitate to swing a purse at an armed attacker.
She catches me watching her and straightens her spine. The movement highlights the elegant curve of her neck, the proud set of her shoulders beneath the black fabric of her dress.
"I should call Mia," she says, breaking the silence. "Let her know I won't be in early tomorrow."
I nod, about to respond when the security panel near the elevator chimes. Elena tenses immediately, eyes darting to the entrance.
"It's alright," I reassure her, moving to the panel. A quick check of the camera feed shows Franco's impassive face. "My right hand."
I unlock the elevator with my fingerprint, and moments later, Franco steps into the penthouse. As always, he's impeccably dressed in a dark suit despite the late hour, black leather gloves covering his hands. His eyes scan the room, assessing potential threats before settling on Elena with subtle curiosity.
"Boss," he acknowledges me with a nod. "Raphael called. Told me everything."
"Good," I respond. "Any developments?"
