Page 3 of Dante
If only I could believe that. The gallery phone rings, and Mia darts off to answer it while I continue adjusting the track lighting, trying to find the perfect angle to illuminate Sophia's work without casting harsh shadows.
"Ms. Rossi?" It's Carlo, my security guard. "Your brother is here."
I suppress a groan. Marco rarely visits the gallery during working hours, which means he wants something. Or worse, he's worried about something.
He strides in wearing one of his impeccably tailored suits, looking every inch the successful businessman rather than what he really is. Two of his "associates" wait by the door. I've learned not to ask their names.
"Elena! The place looks amazing." He kisses both my cheeks, then holds me at arm's length. "You look exhausted, though. Have you been sleeping?"
"I'm fine, Marco." I step back, creating distance. "Just busy. The exhibition opens in ten hours."
He glances around at the staff setting up. "Can we talk privately?"
In my office, I close the door and lean against my desk, arms crossed. "What is it? I really don't have time today for—"
"I've added some extra security for tonight," he interrupts, his tone making it clear this isn't up for discussion. "Nothing obvious, nothing that will make your art people nervous. But they'll be there."
My stomach tightens. "Why? What's going on?"
"Nothing." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Just a precaution. Some important people will be attending."
"Important to you, you mean." I can feel the walls between my life and his beginning to crack. "Marco, we had an agreement. The gallery stays separate from your... business."
He sighs, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. "This isn't up for debate, Elena. After Papa died—"
"Don't." I hold up my hand. "Don't use Papa to justify whatever this is."
Marco's expression hardens momentarily before softening into something that looks almost like regret. "I'm just trying to protect you. That's all I've ever done."
"I know." And I do know. For all his faults, all the things he's become that I hate, Marco has always shielded me from the worst of our family's reality. "But tonight is important to me. Please don't ruin it."
"I won't." He reaches into his jacket and pulls out an envelope. "I wanted to give you this. For the gallery."
I don't take it. "I told you. I don't want your money."
"It's not—" He stops, frustration evident. "It's a gift, Elena. From me to you. Not everything I touch is dirty."
But we both know that's not true. Every dollar in that envelope represents something I've spent my life rejecting. The violence. The fear. The control.
"I appreciate the gesture," I say, "but I've got everything covered. The bank approved my small business loan last month, remember?"
He shoves the envelope back into his pocket, jaw tight with annoyance. "You're the most stubborn woman I've ever known. Pride won't pay your bills if this exhibition fails."
"It won't fail." I lift my chin. "And if it does, it'll be my failure. Mine alone."
"Nothing is ever that simple.” His voice softens. "You think you can exist separate from this family? From me? The world doesn't work that way."
Before I can respond, my office phone rings. Marco checks his watch.
"I have to go. I'll see you tonight." He kisses my forehead. "Try to get some rest before then. You look terrible."
I make a face at him, our childhood dynamic momentarily resurfacing through the tension. "Charming as always, brother."
After he leaves, I sink into my chair, the weight of his visit settling over me. The added security, his vague explanations… Something's happening in his world, something that's spilling over into mine despite all my efforts to keep the boundary intact.
The hours blur as we finish preparing. I force myself to eat a sandwich at Mia's insistence, then change into my dress in the small bathroom: a deep emerald silk that brings out my eyes and hugs my curves without being unprofessional. I let my hair down, dark waves cascading past my shoulders, and apply just enough makeup to look polished but not overdone.
At seven-thirty, I stand in the center of the gallery, taking one final look around. Everything is perfect. The lighting casts a warm glow over Sophia's paintings. The wine is breathing. The catering staff move around, arranging delicate appetizers on silver trays.
