Page 4 of Dante
"They're starting to arrive," Mia calls from the front door.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. This is it. My moment.
The first hour passes in a blur of handshakes, air kisses, and rehearsed descriptions of Sophia's technique. The Times critic seems impressed, lingering in front of the Florence skyline piece for nearly twenty minutes. The New York collector asks pointed questions about pricing and exclusivity.
At nine-fifteen, I'm explaining the inspiration behind one of Sophia's smaller pieces to a group of potential buyers when I feel it—a shift in the energy of the room. A sudden awarenessprickles at the back of my neck, like someone is watching me intensely.
I turn, scanning the crowd, and that's when I see him.
He stands near the entrance, taller than most of the guests, wearing a suit that probably costs more than a month's rent for my gallery. Dark hair, perfectly styled. Strong jawline. And eyes, deep brown eyes that seem to look straight through me, assessing, calculating.
I've never seen him before, yet something about him feels familiar, like a half-forgotten dream. Or nightmare.
He doesn't smile as our eyes meet across the room. He doesn't need to. The intensity of his gaze is enough to root me to the spot, champagne flute frozen halfway to my lips.
Then Marco appears at his side, and the spell breaks. They exchange words, Marco's posture stiff, the stranger's relaxed but somehow more threatening because of it. Who is he? One of Marco's business associates?
"Elena?" The collector from New York touches my arm, reclaiming my attention. "The price for the triptych?"
"Oh, yes, of course." I force myself to focus, to remember the numbers, the practiced pitch. But even as I speak, I'm aware of him moving through my gallery, stopping occasionally to study a painting with genuine interest.
When I finish with the collector, who commits to purchasing two pieces, a small victory that should thrill me, I find myself searching for the mysterious man again. He's examining Sophia's smallest work, a study in contrast that most viewers overlook in favor of her more dramatic pieces.
Before I can think better of it, I'm moving toward him, drawn by pure curiosity.
"That's one of my favorites," I say, stopping beside him. Up close, he's even more imposing. Not just physically, though he certainly is, but something in his presence demands attention. Respect. Maybe even fear. "Most people don't notice it."
He turns to me, and those dark eyes take their time moving from my face down to my paint-stained fingernails (impossible to completely clean, no matter how hard I try before events) and back up again.
"Most people are looking for obvious beauty," he replies, his voice deep and smooth with just a hint of an accent. "They miss the complexity of simpler works." He extends his hand. "Dante Veneziano."
The name hits me. Veneziano. The rival family. The enemy, according to Marco. I should walk away. I should call for security, have him escorted out.
Instead, I place my hand in his. "Elena Rossi."
His grip is firm, warm, and lingers just a moment too long to be purely professional. "I know who you are, Ms. Rossi. Your brother mentioned this was your exhibition."
"Did he?" I withdraw my hand, suddenly very aware of where I am, who I'm talking to. "That's surprising."
"That he'd mention you?" One corner of his mouth quirks up. "Or that I'd accept the invitation?"
"Both." I study him openly now, curiosity overriding caution. "The Venezianos aren't known for their appreciation of contemporary art."
"And what are we known for, exactly?" His tone remains pleasant, but there's an edge underneath that raises goosebumps along my arms.
"I wouldn't know," I lie smoothly. "Art is my world, Mr. Veneziano. Not... whatever world you and my brother inhabit."
He laughs softly, surprising me. "A diplomatic answer." His attention returns to Sophia's painting. "You have an excellent eye. This artist. She captures emotion rather than merely scene. Impressive."
Despite myself, I feel a flush of pleasure at his genuine assessment. "Sophia Bianchi. She's from Florence, relatively unknown until now."
"Until you discovered her." He turns those intense eyes back to me. "Tell me, Ms. Rossi, what made you choose her work for such an important exhibition? It's quite a risk, featuring an unknown."
"Sometimes you have to trust your instincts." I move slightly closer to the painting, pointing out the subtle brushwork in the corner. "See how she creates depth here? That's not technique that can be taught. That's raw talent."
"Your gallery," he says, glancing around. "You've built something impressive here. And without your family's resources, I understand."
"You seem to understand a lot about me, Mr. Veneziano."
