Page 10 of Dante
"I suppose that would be acceptable," I say, settling into my seat, watching as he returns to his own chair.
He doesn't sit too close. Doesn't reach for my hand. Doesn't make any of the forward gestures I half-expected. Instead, he maintains his distance, watching me with those perceptive eyes that seem to catalog my every reaction.
"This place is beautiful," I say, looking around at the intimate restaurant. "How did you find it?"
"It's been here for three generations," he replies, signaling subtly to a waiter who approaches with a bottle of wine. "The owner's father was a friend of my grandfather's."
The waiter pours a small amount for Dante to taste, then fills our glasses when he nods approval.
"So, you've been coming here since you were young," I observe, taking a sip of the rich red wine. It's exceptional, of course.
"Since I was a boy," he confirms, something softening briefly in his expression. "Though in those days, I was limited to grape juice while the men talked business."
The image of a young Dante, solemn and observant while surrounded by men like my father and his, makes something twist in my chest. How different might our lives have been if we'd been born into different families?
"The wine is excellent," I say, bringing myself back to the present.
"From a small vineyard near Montepulciano." His eyes stay on mine, assessing. "I have a case delivered each season."
"Of course you do," I smile despite myself. "Let me guess, you also know the vineyard owner personally?"
"His grandfather," Dante confirms with a slight nod. "My father helped him expand in the eighties."
"Helped," I repeat, raising an eyebrow. "Is that what they call it?"
A shadow passes over his face. "Not everything my family does is what you think, Elena."
"And what do I think?" I challenge him.
"That we're monsters," he says simply, without defensiveness. "That everything we touch is tainted."
For a long moment, he says nothing. Then, "There's a difference between capability and nature. I'm capable of terrible things. That doesn't mean it's all I am."
"A semantics game," I say, though his words resonate more than I'd like to admit. "Evil by any other name."
"Perhaps." He doesn't seem offended by my judgment. "But you're here, dining with evil. What does that make you?"
"Curious," I admit. "And possibly foolish."
His smile returns, warming his features. "Honest, at least. We should order. The seafood here is exceptional, caught this morning."
The abrupt change of subject surprises me, but I follow his lead, accepting the menu he extends.
"What do you recommend?" I ask, scanning the elegant, handwritten menu.
"The risotto ai frutti di mare," he says without hesitation. "Unless you don't care for seafood?"
"I love seafood," I admit. "Especially risotto."
When the waiter returns, Dante orders for us both in flawless Italian. There's something mesmerizing about watching him speak, the way his deep voice caresses the syllables.
"So," he says after the waiter leaves, "tell me about your gallery."
"What do you want to know?" I ask cautiously.
"Everything." He leans back slightly, giving me space. "How you started. Why art. The challenges."
I hesitate, unsure how much to share, but there's genuine interest in his expression. "I opened it three years ago, after working at the Corsini Gallery for a few years."
