Chapter 5 Dante
DANTE
Don Savastano has beheaded men for lesser crimes.
He's not going to be happy when he finds out that I've defied one of his orders. But that's just a risk I'm going to have to take.
When I join the party again, a ruddy-cheeked Italian man finds me almost immediately. There's a cerulean-blue mask covering his face, but I recognize him as Luigi Esposito. He's one of our allies, but he's also one of the men I've been trying to avoid this afternoon.
"Dante, it's so good to see you again," he says, pulling me in for a hug and kissing my cheek. He moves aside to reveal a petite brunette. "This is my eldest daughter, Chiara."
"Hello, Chiara," I say, smiling politely.
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Mancini," she says. Her tone is sweet, but there's something acidic under the surface.
She barely looks to be a teenager, but her father is already parading her around in front of eligible bachelors.
"I think I heard someone calling my name," he says, twisting his neck to look at the crowd. "Can you keep Chiara company for a few minutes? I'll be right back."
I see straight through his bullshit. He's trying to set me up with his daughter.
He's gone before I can object to babysitting his daughter.
The girl crosses her arms in front of her chest, looking uncomfortable.
I clear my throat.
"You look terrified, so I want to make it clear that I'm not interested in you," I say.
She looks up at me, searching my face to see if I mean it.
This place is a swamp. Everything looks still and picturesque on the surface, but crocodiles lurk underneath, hiding in plain view.
"Okay," she says. “And for the record, I’m not interested in you, either."
I notice goose bumps dotting her bare arms. The air-conditioning in here is nearly arctic. Without thinking, I remove my suit jacket and wrap it around her shoulders.
She scrunches her nose.
"Thank you, but it kind of ruins my outfit," she says. And then she peers up at me. “I’ve seen you before.”
"You have?" I ask.
"Yeah, at the other parties," she says. "You're always alone. Why is that?"
She's blunt in the way that children often are.
"Do you like any of the people around you?" I ask.
"Not particularly," she replies.
"I don't like them either," I say.
"But you're one of them," she remarks.
"As are you."
"It's different," she says, shaking her head. "I was born into this life, but you chose it."
My heritage is not a secret. People know that I'm an outsider. Most of the time, they talk about it behind my back, but this girl doesn't seem to care about etiquette.
“Things aren’t always what they seem,” I murmur.
"I don't follow," she says.
My phone has started buzzing with messages. My men must know about the Don's orders. I shoot Enzo a quick message to let him know I'm not ready to leave just yet.
"Why aren't you wearing a mask?" the girl asks.
"What?" I say.
"It's a masquerade party. You're supposed to wear a mask," she points out.
I exhale. "Go back to your father, Chiara."
"No, thank you," she says. "I prefer your company. If I go back to his side, he's going to introduce me to more old men."
"Did you just call me an old man?" I ask. She opens her mouth to answer, but I cut her off before she can confirm or deny. "Actually, don't answer that."
I'm about to walk away from the girl when I spot the other fathers and their daughters in the periphery, circling like vultures around their prey. I'm reminded once again of why I don't attend these events.
"Can I ask you a question?" Chiara asks.
"I guess," I reply, running a hand down my face.
"What are you doing here?" The girl puts her hands on her hips and peers up at me like some amateur detective. "I know it's not to socialize. I have a feeling it's not for the auction either."
She says the word “auction” like she knows exactly what happens at these events.
“Think whatever you want of me,” I say, turning to look at the paintings on the walls. This feels like a pivotal moment for some reason. I can't shake the feeling that everything is about to change today.
"Do you want to know a secret?" the girl pipes up.
"Are you still here?" I ask, exhaling slowly and turning toward her.
She leans in and whispers, "There's a reason I'm here today. I'm about to put a curse on everyone here."
"A curse?" I repeat, sure that I misheard.
"Yeah, don't tell anyone, but I'm practicing witchcraft," she confesses.
I sigh. "Of course you are."
"Don't worry, you're safe," she says, smiling sweetly. "For now."
I'm speechless.
Mafia princesses are expected to be meek wallflowers, but this girl is something else.
"Are you planning on buying anything here?" she asks, her eyes flicking to the paintings and display cases around us.
Most of the people gathered here today are only invited to the art auction. The second auction is only for a select few.
"I haven't had a chance to look around yet," I say. But even if I did, I would never pay millions for a painting.
"You should see the Rembrandt," she says, tipping her chin in the direction of the painting. It's only a few feet away from us.
I glance at the painting on the wall.
"Do you know the history behind it?” she asks.
I shake my head. She walks closer toward it, and I follow her.
"Storm on the Sea of Galilee is Rembrandt's only seascape," she explains. "It was stolen from an art museum in 1990 and remains one of the most valuable pieces of missing art to date. The museum still hangs the empty frame as a reminder of the heist."
I stare at the painting.
It depicts Jesus and his disciples on a boat in the middle of a raging storm. I don't know anything about art, but there's something about this piece that makes it hard to look away.
"It's gorgeous, right?" she says. "The Dutch painter was known for his mastery in blending light and darkness."
"Are you an artist?" I ask, turning to look at the girl.
Her eyes widen. "I don't know if I can call myself that, but I enjoy painting."
"Don't ever sell yourself short," I tell her. "If you don't believe in yourself, nobody else will either."
She blinks at me, like this was the last thing she expected me to say. And then she nods.
"If you could take anything home from this auction, what would it be?" I ask.
"That's easy," she says. "I'll take the Hope Diamond."
"They have the Hope Diamond here?" I ask, raising my eyebrows.
"No, I was kidding." The girl smiles. "Even if they had it, I wouldn't want it. It's totally cursed. I do have my eye on the Patiala necklace, though. It's been missing longer than the Rembrandt."
Lost heritage. Stolen paintings. Cursed jewels. This is no ordinary art auction.
I wish it stopped here, but there's more to it.
A few minutes later, a woman in a crystal-studded Versace gown circulates the room. She's discreetly distributing something to a few of the patrons present here.
As she passes by me, she presses a circular golden medallion into my palm. This is my ticket to the second auction.
Chiara's entire demeanor shifts. She purses her lips as she stares at my hand.
"You're a disgusting pig just like the rest of them. I'm going to put a curse on you, too," she informs me.
She throws my suit jacket back at me and storms off without another word. I know I shouldn't mind her words, but they still linger in my head.
They haunt me as I'm taken through the streets of Monaco in a private limo. The second auction will take place in an undisclosed location.
I didn't expect the drive to be so long.
Monaco is the second smallest country in the world. If it's taking us this long to go somewhere, it can only mean that we're heading to one of Monaco's neighboring countries—France or Italy.
I lean back against the headrest and try to relax.
It's easier said than done.
I'm always on edge every time I attend one of these auctions.
I turn over the cold medallion in my hand. It depicts two fire-breathing dragons facing each other. It stands for power and greed, the two things that rule the people in my world.
When the limo rolls to a stop, it's not in front of another glittering hotel.
We're parked in front of ancient ruins. It's all golden sand and blue skies.
I step out of the car and walk toward the entrance.
The auction is taking place at an abandoned amphitheater that looks to be hundreds of years old.
A line of identical black limos drops off more people at the entrance.
I scan their faces, trying to see if I recognize any of them underneath their masks.
These people are the crème de la crème of the underworld.
We're presented with drinks and refreshments as we walk to our seats. The stage is empty right now, but I know that the girls will be brought out in a few minutes. There's a brochure on the seats that contains more information about the girls who will be presented today.
A hollowness spreads through me. It's not a foreign emotion, but a companion I've grown accustomed to.
Once all the patrons are seated, the hostess walks up to the stage. She's dressed in a flowing white dress and an enormous feathered hat.
"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen." Her voice is hypnotizing, a rich velvet. "My name is Cassidy, and I'm going to be your auctioneer for this afternoon. Welcome to this exclusive event. We have some very special items for bid today. I imagine you’re eager to see what’s been prepared.”
She glances at the far end of the stage.
A little girl with curly blond hair steps forward. She looks to be about ten years old. Her eyes are vacant, like she's a zombie without a soul.
"We'll be starting with this exquisite creature," she says. "Bidding starts at fifty thousand euros."
"Seventy," says a voice from my right.
"Seventy-five," someone else says.
I grit my teeth.
A familiar rage starts in my heart. It spreads to all of me, setting my entire body on fire. I'm going up in flames, but I wear an icy mask on the outside.
I look at the little girl. She's blinking rapidly, like she's trying to hold back tears.
"Oh, it looks like we have some eager bidders already," the auctioneer says.
The bidding continues. Two men go back and forth in a battle of egos.
It's less about the girl and more about who wins.
"One hundred thousand euros," the first bidder exclaims.
A hush falls over the crowd.
"We have one hundred thousand euros," the auctioneer says. "Going once...going twice..."
She pauses for effect.
I glance at the man to my right. He's bald with a mustache and greasy skin. I file his ugly face into my memory.
"Sold," the auctioneer exclaims.
The little girl is in tears. I stare at the ground and make a silent vow to the little girl.
"Grace Thorne," the auctioneer says, introducing the second girl.
I look up at the stage.
My heart skips a beat. My world stops spinning. The rage in my heart simmers down, replaced by a strange sense of peace.
I'm reminded of the Rembrandt painting of the boat in the churning ocean. In it, the disciples were swept away by panic, but Jesus remained calm.
That's how my heart feels right now.
Like it's finally found what it's been searching for.
I can't stop staring at her. The girl has rich brown hair, a soft figure, and skin that appears luminous under the sun, like it's made of thousands of tiny diamonds.
And then she looks up.
There are about a hundred people in the audience, but her eyes find mine. She stares at me the same way I do, like it's hard for her to look away.
"Bidding starts at twenty thousand euros," the auctioneer says.
"Two hundred grand."
Heads turn. Everyone's looking at me.
"Two hundred grand," I repeat.
The girl is looking at me, too. She's breathing heavily. I can't tell if it's from desire or fear. It's probably both.
"I think someone likes her," the auctioneer says with a coy smile. "Do we have a higher bid?"
I don't take my eyes off the girl. I know there's probably a better way to do this, but I don't want any other man to even think they can have her.
"Going once...going twice...and sold," the auctioneer says.
Sold.
I sign the check and hand it to the staff.
The weight of what I just did is starting to sink in. I just paid two hundred grand for a woman.
I wait for the regret to come, but there isn't any.
The girl is still on the stage. Her chest is flushed. She's rubbing her thighs together. It takes all of my willpower to keep my eyes on her pretty face.
We haven’t said a word to each other, but this meeting still feels fated somehow.
I was never one to believe in such things, but…
My line of thought is interrupted by gunfire. Armed agents swarm the amphitheater, surrounding it from all sides.
It's a raid.
Just as Don Savastano predicted.