Page 33 of Dante
"One more stop," he says, guiding me toward a particular wing of the museum. "Something special."
We turn a corner, and I immediately recognize where we are. The Denon Wing, approaching the gallery that houses the museum's most famous resident. Sure enough, as we enter the spacious room, she's there—the Mona Lisa, looking serenely out from behind her protective glass.
"I thought she'd be smaller," I joke.
Dante laughs softly, the sound echoing in the empty gallery. "Even the most famous works can surprise us when we finally see them in person."
He moves us closer, positioning me directly in front of the painting. Unlike the daytime visitors who must jostle for position and view the work from behind barriers, I'm able to stand just a few feet away, taking in every detail of the mysterious woman's face.
"You know," I say after a moment of contemplation, "I've always thought she looks like she's keeping a secret. Something she knows that the viewer doesn't."
"Perhaps she is," Dante agrees, his voice taking on an unusual quality that makes me turn to look at him.
But Dante isn't beside me anymore. He's dropped to one knee on the polished floor of the Louvre, looking up at me with an expression I've never seen before. Vulnerability mingled with absolute certainty.
"Dante?" My voice comes out barely above a whisper, my heart suddenly pounding so loudly I'm sure it must echo through the empty galleries.
"Elena Rossi," he says, his voice steady despite the emotion evident in his eyes. "Two years ago, you walked into my life and changed everything. You challenged me. You stood up to me. You saw past what everyone else sees to who I really am."
He reaches into his jacket pocket and produces a small velvet box. When he opens it, the diamond catches the museum lighting, throwing prisms of color across his face.
"I've conquered territories, built empires, brought rivals to their knees," he continues, a hint of his usual confidence returning. "But nothing I've ever done has made me as proud as earning your love."
My eyes fill with tears, blurring the sight of him kneeling before me. This man who bows to no one, who rules our world withunquestioned authority, is on his knee asking for the one thing he can't simply take.
"Will you marry me, Elena? Rule beside me, not just as my partner, but as my wife?"
In this moment, I understand Mona Lisa’s secret smile perfectly. The quiet knowledge of having something priceless that the rest of the world can only glimpse.
"Yes," I say, my voice stronger now. "Yes, Dante Veneziano. I will marry you."
His smile is radiant as he slides the ring onto my finger—a perfect fit, of course. Dante would accept nothing less than perfection for this moment. He rises to his feet and pulls me into his arms, his kiss deep and possessive and full of promise.
When we finally break apart, both slightly breathless, I can't help but laugh softly. "Only you would propose in front of the most famous painting in the world, in an empty museum, in the middle of the night."
"Only the best for you," he says simply, pressing his forehead against mine. "Always."
"Did you talk to Marco about this?" I ask, suddenly wondering if my brother knows about Dante's plans.
His smile turns slightly mischievous. "I did. Proper tradition and all that. He put on quite a show of reluctance. Threatened me, questioned my intentions, reminded me of all the ways he could make my life difficult if I ever hurt you." Dante chuckles, the sound warm and intimate in the empty gallery. "But in the end, he gave his blessing. Said he's never seen you happier than these past two years, and that if you had to fall for someone in our world, he's glad it was someone who'd burn it all down to protect you."
I shake my head, smiling at the image of my once-hostile brother and Dante having that conversation. I look down at the ring sparkling on my finger, then back up at the masterpiece before us, and finally at the man who has given me a life I never could have imagined.
From gallery owner to the future wife of one of the world's most powerful men. From hiding in the shadows of my brother's legacy to standing proudly in the light, creating my own.
"I love you," I tell him, the words still new enough to feel precious each time I say them.
"And I love you," he responds, the man who once told me he was incapable of such emotion now saying the words easily, naturally.
As we leave the Louvre hand in hand, the night air of Paris cool against my flushed cheeks, I think about the path that brought us here. The violence, the betrayals, the difficult choices. The gallery that started it all. The brother who eventually accepted what he couldn't change. The two families, once enemies, now united through us.
Beauty and tragedy, Dante had said that first night. Inseparable. He was right, of course. But what he didn't say, what perhaps he didn't know then, was that between those two extremes, in the delicate balance of power and vulnerability, strength and surrender, fear and love, is where true art exists.
And what we've created together, this unlikely, impossible love, might be the greatest masterpiece of all.
