Page 15 of Dante
"And you live in those gray areas."
"I thrive in them," I correct her. "As does your brother, though our approaches differ."
She turns back to the window. "Marco thinks he's protecting me by keeping me separate from his business."
"Isn't he?"
"No." Her voice hardens slightly. "He's protecting himself. My ignorance gives him deniability if things ever go wrong. 'My poor innocent sister knew nothing.' It's a shield, not a kindness."
Her insight surprises me. Most people in her position would accept the comfortable fiction of protection, grateful for the distance from ugly realities. But Elena sees the truth of it, even if she chooses not to confront it directly.
"And yet," I point out, "you've maintained that separation yourself. Built your gallery with clean money, as you put it."
"That's different," she insists. "That was my choice, not his. I don't need protection. I need autonomy."
The car falls silent after that exchange, both of us retreating to our thoughts. The city passes by outside, transitioning from the old quarter with its narrow streets and historic buildings to the more residential area where Elena lives. It's a pleasant neighborhood. Not ostentatious, but comfortable, with small cafes and boutiques now closed for the night.
"This is me," she says as we pull up to a renovated pre-war building with a modest but well-maintained facade.
I scan the street automatically—a habit so ingrained I do it without conscious thought. The sidewalks are empty at this hour, the streetlights casting pools of yellow light at regular intervals. Nothing seems out of place, and yet...
"Wait here," I tell Raphael as he pulls to the curb. "I'll see Ms. Rossi to her door."
Raphael's eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, a silent question that I answer with a subtle nod. He's been with me long enough to recognize when I sense something isn't right.
"That's not necessary," Elena begins, but I'm already opening my door.
"Humor me," I say, extending my hand to help her from the car. "Old-world manners die hard."
She accepts with a small smile, her hand warm in mine. "I suppose chivalry isn't completely dead, even in your line of work."
"Especially in my line of work," I correct her, releasing her hand but staying close as we approach her building. "Respect and tradition are essential when operating outside conventional structures."
The entrance to her building is well-lit, a small lobby visible through glass doors. As we reach the short flight of steps leading up to it, movement in the shadows to our right catches my attention. I shift subtly, positioning myself between Elena and the potential threat.
"Your key?" I ask casually, maintaining a relaxed posture while every sense goes on high alert.
She rummages in her small purse, producing a set of keys. As she moves to unlock the door, I notice more movement. Four figures emerging from the shadows of the adjacent alleyway, moving with purpose.
"Elena," I say quietly, "when I tell you to, I want you to go inside, lock the door."
Her head jerks up, confusion in her expression. "What? Why would I—"
"We have company," I interrupt, turning to face the approaching men. Russian, by their builds and movement patterns. One has a distinctive tattoo visible on his neck—a stylized eagle. Moretti's crew. Interesting.
"Veneziano," the leader calls out, his accent confirming my assessment. "Little far from home, aren't you?"
"Gentlemen," I respond evenly, cataloging their positions, stances, the subtle bulges that indicate weapons. Knives, most likely, not guns. They want this quiet. "I wasn't aware we had business."
"We don't," the leader says, moving closer. The four of them spread out, attempting to flank us. "But your dinner companion's brother does."
Elena stiffens beside me. "What does Marco have to do with this?"
"Everything, sweetheart," the Russian smirks. "He's been stepping on toes lately. Our boss thought we'd send a message."
I hear the car door open behind us. Raphael, moving to support. Good.
"Go inside, Elena," I say, voice firm.
