Page 2 of Dante
"Merely an observation." I sip the whiskey now, letting the expensive liquid burn down my throat. "One your father would have appreciated."
Our conversation circles like this for nearly an hour, both of us dancing around the true issues, playing at diplomacy while planning each other's destruction. It's exhausting, but necessary. By the time we're ready to part, we've reached a stalemate—no agreements, but no open declarations of war either.
"By the way," Marco says as we stand, almost as an afterthought, but I know better. Nothing in these meetings is afterthought. "My sister is hosting an exhibition at her gallery tomorrow. You appreciate art, don't you, Dante? Perhaps you'd like to attend."
The invitation surprises me. Elena Rossi has always been kept separate from family business. Protected. I've only seen her in surveillance photos, a beautiful woman with paint-stained fingers moving through her gallery, seemingly untouched by the blood that funds it.
"I'd be delighted," I hear myself say, curiosity getting the better of me. "Galleria Bella, yes? I've heard excellent things about her eye for emerging talent."
Something flickers across Marco's face. Perhaps surprise that I know the name of his sister's gallery, before he schools his expression. "Eight o'clock. She's featuring a new artist from Florence."
We exchange insincere handshakes, and I leave first, mind already cataloging the various angles this invitation mightrepresent. Is it a trap? A peace offering? Or something else entirely?
"Have the car brought around," I tell Raphael as I exit the club's private entrance. "And get me everything on Elena Rossi."
"Everything, sir?" His eyebrow lifts slightly.
"Everything." I straighten my tie, looking up at the night sky. Stars struggle to shine through the city's light pollution, barely visible pinpricks of brightness against the darkness. "Daily routines, security detail, personal relationships. And find out who this artist from Florence is."
Back in the car, I scroll through my phone, finding the file we already have on Elena. It's thin. She's never been considered a player worth watching closely. The photo shows her laughing, head tilted back, hair cascading around her shoulders as she holds a glass of champagne at some gallery event. There's a lightness to her that seems impossible for someone born into our world.
I close the file and stare out at the passing city lights. The Rossi family is hiding something. Financial troubles, internal strife, something significant. And somehow, I suspect Elena Rossi is the key to finding out what it is.
After all, in our world, everyone is a potential weapon. Even the beautiful, curvy, paint-stained sister who thinks she exists outside the family business.
Especially her.
Chapter 2 - Elena
The morning light filters through my apartment windows as I stand before my coffee maker, willing it to brew faster. My nerves are already frayed, and it's barely seven a.m.
Tonight's exhibition feels different from all the others. Bigger, more consequential, like everything I've worked for hinges on these next twelve hours.
I tap my fingernails against the countertop, leaving tiny specks of dried blue paint from yesterday's late-night touch-ups. The coffee finally gurgles into my mug, and I cradle it between my hands, inhaling the rich scent that promises clarity.
"Focus, Elena," I whisper to myself. "One step at a time."
My phone buzzes with a text from Marco: *Need anything for tonight? Last chance to accept my help. Just say the word.*
I sigh, typing back quickly: *I've got it covered. See you at 8.*
Setting down the phone, I feel that familiar mix of love and frustration that comes with having Marco as a brother. He means well, but his help always comes with strings attached. Invisible threads that bind me closer to a world I've spent my entire adult life trying to escape.
When I opened Galleria Bella three years ago, I made myself a promise: not one cent of Rossi family money would touch my dream. I took out loans. I worked side jobs. I slept on a mattress on the floor of the back office for six months until I could afford a real apartment. All to ensure that my gallery—my life's work—was built with clean hands.
Marco called me foolish. Stubborn. Ungrateful. Maybe I am all those things, but at least when I look in the mirror each morning, I see someone who's earned her place honestly.
I gulp down the coffee and head to the shower, mentally reviewing my checklist for today. The catering needs final confirmation. The lighting still needs adjusting for Sophia's largest canvas. The press packets need one last review...
By eight-thirty, I'm at the gallery, my hair pulled into a messy bun as I direct the catering staff where to set up. The space already looks transformed.
Sophia Bianchi's vibrant, emotional paintings breathing life into the white walls of Galleria Bella. I stop for a moment, taking in the centerpiece of the exhibition: a massive canvas depicting the Florence skyline at sunset, but rendered in unexpected blues and purples that somehow capture the city's soul rather than its appearance.
"It's going to be perfect," says Mia, my assistant, appearing at my elbow with a clipboard. "The Times art critic confirmed, along with that collector from New York you've been trying to impress."
"And the wine?" I ask, trying not to let my anxiety show.
"Arriving at three, along with the flowers. Stop worrying." She squeezes my arm. "This is your moment, Elena. You deserve it."
