Page 8 of Dante
Chapter 4 - Elena
I can't stop thinking about him.
I curl my legs beneath me on my apartment sofa, staring at the business card in my hand. _Dante Veneziano_. Embossed black letters on heavy cream cardstock, nothing but a phone number beneath the name. No title. No company. A man who needs no introduction.
The gallery paperwork sits half-finished on my coffee table, the sale forms for Sophia's paintings awaiting final processing. All except one. The Florence skyline piece that now has two interested buyers. One a mysterious connection of Marco's. The other, Dante Veneziano.
Sixty thousand dollars. Twenty thousand over asking price. The practical part of me knows I should call him and accept the offer. That kind of money would ease the gallery's financial pressures for months. But accepting would mean defying Marco, crossing a line I've maintained for years.
And then there's the dinner invitation.
Rain taps gently against my windows as I reach for my phone, hesitating before finally dialing Marco's number. He answers on the third ring, his voice tense.
"Elena? Everything okay?"
"Fine," I say, playing with the fringe of my throw pillow. "I just wanted to ask about the Florence piece. You said there was already a buyer?"
A pause. "Yes. A collector from Milan. Very private, very wealthy."
"And they've made a formal offer?"
Another hesitation. "Not exactly. But they're prepared to pay well above asking price."
"So have I," I say, suddenly irritated by the vagueness. "Marco, if there's no official offer, I need to consider other interested parties."
"What other parties?" His voice sharpens. "You mean Veneziano."
"He's offered sixty thousand. In cash, I assume."
"You can't sell to him." The command in his tone makes my spine stiffen.
"Why not? His money spends the same as anyone else's."
"Elena." He sounds tired suddenly. "Please, just trust me on this. Veneziano isn't interested in that painting. He's interested in getting close to you."
"That's ridiculous," I say, even as heat rises to my cheeks. "He appreciates art. You saw how he talked about the exhibition."
"He appreciates anything he can use against me." Marco's voice turns gentle, which is somehow worse than his anger. "Dante Veneziano is dangerous. More dangerous than you can imagine. Stay away from him."
"I'm not a child, Marco," I say, standing to pace my small living room. "I know what he is. What you both are."
"No," he says quietly. "You really don't."
After we hang up, I stare at the business card again, running my thumb over the embossed letters. Marco's warning echoes in my head, but so does the memory of Dante's voice as he spoke about Florence, about beauty and tragedy intertwined. There had been truth in those words, genuine appreciation for Sophia's art.
Or perhaps that's what I want to believe.
I set the card down and move to my bedroom, changing into my painting clothes—an oversized men's shirt covered in years of colorful splatters and my most comfortable leggings. When I can't sleep, when my mind won't quiet, I paint.
My apartment's spare bedroom serves as my studio, cluttered with canvases and supplies. Unlike the pristine gallery, this space is gloriously chaotic, every surface bearing witness to creative impulse. I squeeze fresh paint onto my palette—dark blues, purples, hints of gold—and begin to work on the half-finished canvas on my easel.
It's a cityscape, not Florence but our city, viewed from above as if in flight. I lose myself in the work, in the rhythm of brush against canvas, in the colors that blend and separate under my guidance. Time slips away. The rain continues its gentle percussion against the windows.
I don't realize I've painted his eyes into the skyline until I step back, dawn light beginning to filter through the blinds. There, in the shadows between buildings, those dark, intense eyes watch from the canvas. I set my brush down with shaking fingers.
What am I doing?
After a quick shower to wash away paint and exhaustion, I make strong coffee and force myself to eat something before heading to the gallery. The morning is bright despite the night's rain, sunlight gleaming off puddles as I walk the six blocks from my apartment.
