Page 21 of Dante
"I can imagine," she says softly. "I'm sorry about all this. About Marco. About dragging you into whatever mess he's created."
The apology surprises me. "You have nothing to apologize for."
"He's my brother," she says simply, as if this explains everything. Perhaps, to her, it does.
"We don't choose our blood," I tell her, handing her a fresh glass. "Only how we respond to its obligations."
She takes the drink. "Have you always wanted this?" she asks suddenly. "This life?"
The question catches me off guard. Few people have ever asked about my desires, my choices. Most assume I simply inherited my position and embraced it without question.
"No," I admit, surprising myself with my honesty. "As a child, I wanted to be an architect."
"Really?" She seems genuinely interested, moving to sit on one of the leather sofas, tucking her legs beneath her. The movement causes her dress to ride up slightly, revealing the curve of her thighs.
I force my gaze back to her face. "I was fascinated by buildings, by creating spaces that would outlast me. I used to sketch designs when I was supposed to be studying my father's ledgers."
"What happened?" she asks, taking a sip of her drink.
"Reality," I say simply, sitting across from her. "My father was shot when I was seventeen. Not killed but badly injured. Leadership fell to me while he recovered."
"At seventeen?" Her eyes widen. "That's so young."
"In our world, you grow up quickly or you don't grow up at all." I lean back, memories surfacing that I rarely allow myself to revisit. "By the time my father recovered enough to resume control, I'd already made changes to the organization. Modernized operations, eliminated certain... liabilities."
"You mean people," she clarifies, no judgment in her tone, just clarity.
"Yes," I don't bother denying it. "People who thought a teenager would be easy to manipulate. People who saw my father's injury as an opportunity to seize power."
"And you killed them." It's not a question.
"I made examples of them," I correct her. "In our world, reputation is currency. Respect is built on fear as much as loyalty. I couldn't afford to be seen as weak, not at that age."
She's silent for a moment, absorbing this. "And architecture?"
I smile slightly at her persistence. "By the time I was twenty, the only buildings I was designing were front operations and security protocols. Some dreams don't survive contact with reality."
"That's sad," she says simply.
"It's life," I counter. "We adapt or we perish. You've done the same, in your way."
"Me?" She looks genuinely puzzled.
"Your gallery," I explain. "You could have taken the easy path, and used your family's money, your brother's connections. Instead, you chose the harder road because it aligned with your principles."
She considers this. "I never thought of it that way. As a choice between survival and principles."
"All choices come down to that, eventually," I tell her. "What we're willing to compromise to continue existing."
Franco returns before she can respond, his expression grave. "Boss, I need a word."
I excuse myself, following Franco to the security room at the far end of the penthouse. Multiple monitors display feeds fromcameras positioned throughout the building and surrounding streets.
"Rossi's men are moving," Franco says without preamble, pointing to a screen showing three black SUVs pulling up outside my building. "Eight men, heavily armed. They're not being subtle."
"Fucking idiot," I mutter, watching Marco's soldiers exit the vehicles. "He's going to get them all killed."
"Want me to deploy a team?"
