Page 12 of Dante
"I'm glad you approve." I keep my voice neutral, masking the unexpected sting of her words moments earlier.
_You know what you are. What you do._
I do know. I've never pretended otherwise, not even to myself. But something about hearing that judgment from her lips—lips now curved in pleasure at the taste of food I recommended—unsettles me more than it should.
Elena Rossi has spent a lifetime keeping herself separate from her family's business, building walls between her gallery and her brother's empire. I respect that determination, even as I recognize its naiveté. No one truly escapes the world they're born into. Not completely.
Not even her, with her paint-stained hands and stubborn independence.
"The chef uses his grandmother's recipe," I say after a moment, returning to safer topics. "The saffron is imported from a specific farm outside Valencia."
"Of course it is." She smiles, the tension between us easing slightly. "You don't do anything by half measures, do you?"
"No," I admit, watching how the amber light catches in her dark hair. "I find excellence is worth the effort."
We eat in silence for a few moments, and I allow myself to simply observe her. The graceful way she handles her cutlery, the slight furrow in her brow when she concentrates on a particularly delicate bite, the unconscious way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she thinks I'm not looking.
Beautiful women are common in my world. Power attracts beauty like moths to flame, often with similar results. But Elena is different. There's a genuineness to her that stands out like a clear note amid cacophony. She hasn't learned to hide her reactions, to calculate her expressions for maximum effect.
It's refreshing. And dangerous.
"Tell me about your painting," I say, surprising both of us with the question.
Her head lifts sharply. "My painting? How did you—"
"Your hands," I nod toward where her fingers rest against her wine glass. "The stains aren't from handling others' work. Different patterns. And there was a smudge of blue paint on your temple when I visited the gallery yesterday."
She touches her temple self-consciously. "I thought I'd washed it all off."
"You missed a spot." I resist the urge to reach across and touch the place where the paint had been. "Most gallery owners I know don't create. They curate. They sell. They don't understand the art from the inside."
She studies me, suspicious again. "You notice a lot."
"It's how I've stayed alive," I say simply.
The blunt honesty silences her momentarily. Another woman might have used the opening to probe, to ask about the dangers in my life, perhaps looking for thrilling stories of violence and power. Elena just nods, accepting the statement at face value.
"I don't show my work," she says finally, answering my original question. "I paint for myself. It's... different from what I display in the gallery."
"Different how?"
She takes a sip of wine, considering her answer. "More personal. Less structured. I studied formally at the academy, but what I create now isn't meant for public consumption."
"Art that exists purely for its creator." I find the concept intriguing. "No concerns about market appeal or critical reception."
"Exactly." Her face softens, passion animating her features. "Just color and emotion and whatever needs to come out. Sometimes I don't even know what I'm creating until it's finished."
"I'd like to see it someday," I say, the words emerging before I can consider their implications.
She laughs softly, shaking her head. "That's an intimate request, Dante. You don't invite someone to see your private work on a first dinner."
"Is that what this is?" I ask. "A first dinner? Implying there might be others?"
Color rises to her cheeks. Not embarrassment, I think, but something closer to defiance. "I haven't decided yet."
"Fair enough." I signal for more wine. "The painting from the exhibition. Have you decided about my offer?"
The abrupt return to business catches her off guard. Good. I prefer keeping her slightly unbalanced, never quite able to predict my next move. It's a tactical habit, but also a necessary precaution. The more she thinks she understands me, the closer she'll allow me to get.
