Page 9 of Dante
Mia is already there, organizing the sales paperwork from last night.
"Successful doesn't begin to cover it," she says, grinning as she hands me a stack of receipts. "We sold eight pieces, including the triptych to that New York collector. Sophia is going to flip when she hears."
"Nine pieces," I correct her, setting my bag down. "The Florence skyline has a buyer too."
"Really? Who?" She looks up from her clipboard, excited.
I hesitate. "I'm still finalizing the details."
The morning passes in a blur of paperwork, calls to buyers, and a lengthy, emotional conversation with Sophia in Florence, who breaks down in tears when I tell her how much her work sold for. By early afternoon, I'm finally alone in the gallery, enjoying the quiet after the previous night's commotion.
That's when I see it… A small, beautiful floral arrangement on my desk that definitely wasn't there earlier. White roses and sprigs of lavender in a simple crystal vase, with a small card nestled among the blooms.
My heart beats faster as I open it.
_Eight o'clock. I'll be waiting. - D_
How did he get in? I glance at the gallery's security system, wondering if I should be concerned, then remember that Mia was here earlier. He must have sent them with a courier.
I touch one of the rose petals, soft and perfect against my fingertip. The gesture is both elegant and presumptuous. He assumes I'll come, despite everything that stands between us.
For the rest of the afternoon, I move through my tasks in a fog of indecision. Part of me—the sensible, self-preserving part—knows I should stay far away from Dante Veneziano. But another part, a part I barely recognize, is drawn to him with a force I can't explain.
At six-thirty, I lock the gallery and walk home, still undecided.
In my apartment, I stand before my closet, staring at my options. If I were going to dinner with a dangerous, attractive man whohappens to be my brother's enemy—which I'm absolutely not—what would I wear?
My hand reaches for a black dress I've owned for years but rarely worn. Simple but elegant, with a neckline that hints rather than reveals, and a hem that falls just above my knees. I pull it out, holding it against me as I look in the mirror.
"This is insane," I tell my reflection. "You're not going."
But twenty minutes later, I'm stepping out of the shower. By seven-fifteen, my hair falls in soft waves around my shoulders, my makeup is subtle but flawless, and I'm zipping up the black dress.
At seven-thirty, I call a taxi.
"Where to?" asks the driver.
I hesitate for one final moment. "Trattoria del Cielo, in the old quarter."
The restaurant is tucked away on a narrow, cobblestone street, its facade understated except for a small blue sign with golden stars. No flashy entrance, no line of luxury cars outside. Just a discreet door and warm light spilling from small windows. The kind of place locals keep secret from tourists.
My hands are trembling slightly as I approach the entrance. I can still turn around. Still walk away.
Instead, I push open the door.
The interior is cozy and intimate. Perhaps a dozen tables, well-spaced, with amber lighting that casts a warm glow over everything. Exposed brick walls, dark wood beams overhead, and the delicious scent of authentic Italian cooking filling the air. At the far end of the room, a man rises from a corner table.
Dante.
He wears a charcoal gray suit tonight, perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders and lean waist, no tie, the top buttons of his white shirt undone. Less formal than yesterday, but no less commanding. His eyes find mine across the room, and for a moment, everything else fades away. The other diners, the soft music playing in the background, the rational voice in my head screaming at me to leave.
I move toward him, aware of the hostess watching with interest, aware of my pulse quickening with each step.
"You came," he says when I reach the table, his expression neutral despite the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes.
"I was in the neighborhood," I reply, attempting nonchalance even as my heart races. "And I thought we could discuss your offer for the painting."
A small smile curves his lips, as though he sees right through my pretense. "Of course. Business." He pulls out my chair like a gentleman. "Though I hope you'll allow me to feed you while we negotiate."
