Page 5 of Dante
"Dante," he corrects, offering me a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. "And I make it my business to understand everything about anything that interests me."
I accept the glass but don't drink. "And my gallery interests you?"
His gaze is direct, unnerving. "Among other things."
Before I can respond, Marco materializes at my side, his hand gripping my elbow.
"Elena, the Times critic is looking for you." His voice is tight, eyes never leaving Dante's face. "Mr. Veneziano was just leaving."
"Actually," Dante says smoothly, "I was considering making a purchase. The Florence skyline piece. It speaks to me."
Marco's grip on my arm tightens. "I'm afraid that one's already spoken for."
"Is it?" I look at my brother in confusion. "I haven't received any offers on it yet."
"A private arrangement," Marco says quickly. "I'll explain later."
Dante's eyes flick between us, missing nothing. "Another time, perhaps." He hands me a business card. "When you have something equally compelling to offer."
He nods to Marco, the gesture somehow both respectful and dismissive, then walks away, moving through the crowd.
"What the hell was that?" Marco hisses once Dante is out of earshot. "Do you have any idea who he is?"
"I know exactly who he is," I pull my arm free. "He was invited, wasn't he? By you, specifically."
Marco runs a hand through his hair. "It's complicated. Business."
"Not my business," I remind him, the familiar mantra feeling hollow now. "You promised, Marco. Tonight was supposed to be about my work, my gallery. Not whatever game you're playing with the Venezianos."
He has the decency to look ashamed, at least. "I'm sorry, Elena. You're right." He squeezes my shoulder. "Go talk to the critic. This is your night. Forget about Dante Veneziano."
But as I move through my gallery, accepting congratulations and discussing Sophia's work, I can't help but remember. The weight of his business card burns in the pocket of my dress. The memory of those dark, knowing eyes follows me through the rest of the evening.
And for the first time in years, the boundaries I've built between my world and Marco's feel dangerously fragile.
Chapter 3 - Dante
I watch Elena Rossi through the tinted windows of my Maserati, parked across the street from her gallery. She stands at the entrance, bidding farewell to the last of her guests with a smile that doesn't quite hide her exhaustion.
"Raphael," I say to my left-hand and driver, "wait here."
"Sir," he protests, "Franco said to bring you straight back after—"
"Franco doesn't give me orders." My tone ends the conversation.
The night air carries a hint of coming rain as I step out of the car, adjusting my cuffs. The gallery's lights have dimmed, but through the large front windows, I can see Elena moving between the displays, straightening a frame here, collecting an abandoned champagne flute there. The caterers have gone. Her assistant appears briefly, coat on, apparently saying goodnight.
Perfect timing.
I wait until the assistant has disappeared around the corner before crossing the street. Elena's back is to the door, her dark hair falling loose down her back as she crouches to retrieve something from the floor. The silk of her dress pulls taut across her curves, and I allow myself a moment to appreciate the view before tapping lightly on the glass.
She startles, spinning around, hand to her chest. Recognition flashes across her face, followed quickly by wariness. She hesitates, then moves to the door.
"We're closed, Mr. Veneziano," she says through the glass, not unlocking it.
"Dante," I correct her again, keeping my posture relaxed, non-threatening. "I was hoping for a private viewing."
Her eyes narrow slightly. "At nearly midnight?"
