Il Lupo #2
He smirked. “It was my nickname for him when he was younger. A little spark.” His face clouded over. “It was his father’s death that changed him.”
Okay, he couldn’t drop that on me and not expect me to be just a little bit curious.
“How’s that?” I asked.
“They were very close. When Filippo was murdered, Dante tried to distance himself from the family. When that didn’t work, he signed up with the US Army Rangers.
” He snorted. “Ironic, isn’t it? That he left to get away from all this—” he waved his arm in the air— “and ended up becoming the very thing he despised.”
I gritted my teeth.
Shit. Now I was feeling sorry for him. The big asshole had used me, discarded me, and ruined everything I’d built up. He didn’t deserve my sympathy.
I didn’t know how to respond, but luckily, Giselle chose that moment to come back with the tea. She set the silver tray down on one of the footstools. “Will there be anything else, Mr. Marcelli?”
“That’s all for now, Giselle.”
She gave a quick nod and disappeared again.
I hadn’t seen anyone else in the house and wondered what had happened to Mrs. Marcelli. I decided now wasn’t the time to ask.
“Would you do the honors?” He nodded to the teapot. “My hands aren’t as steady as they used to be.”
“Of course.” I poured for each of us, then handed him a teacup. “I heard you’re something of an artist yourself,” I said, eager to change the subject.
He shrugged modestly. “I dabble. It keeps me busy.”
“I’d like to see some of your work, if you don’t mind showing me.”
He nodded, pleased. “Maybe later. Right now, I’d like to hear more about you.”
“Me?” I squeaked. What was there to say about me? I was an open book.
“Yes. Tell me about the Agora, and what attracted you to the art industry.”
So I did. I told him all about my passion for art, my desire to be self-sufficient, and my parents’ death. When I mentioned the light airplane crash that had killed them in Africa, he didn’t bat an eyelid. All he said was, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
I got the feeling that nothing I was telling him was news to him. The Marcellis must have had me thoroughly checked out before they decided to use my gallery to launder their drug money. I wondered if Leo had been the one who’d decided art galleries would be a good front.
It struck me as a decision he would have made.
When I was done, he took me upstairs to his studio. “Nobody comes up here,” he said quietly, as he unlocked the door.
I felt honored that he was entrusting me with a glimpse at his creations.
The room occupied the entire top floor beneath a skylight ceiling, flooded with cool autumn light. Paintings leaned against walls and sat stacked carefully beside shelves filled with oils, charcoal, and old sketchbooks.
And they were good.
Very good.
Not hobbyist-rich-man good; there was talent there.
Leo painted moody urban landscapes mostly. New York in rainstorms. Lonely street corners. Smoky jazz clubs. There was a melancholy to them I hadn’t expected.
“These are incredible,” I admitted honestly as I studied a dramatic oil painting of Manhattan at dusk. “Why haven’t you exhibited?”
He waved a dismissive hand. “I’m too old for that nonsense now.”
“No,” I said, turning toward him. “I mean it. The composition alone—”
“My son was the talented one.”
The quiet interruption caught me off guard.
“Filippo?”
Leo nodded slowly, his gaze drifting toward a charcoal portrait hanging near the window. A handsome dark-haired man stared back at me with Dante’s gray eyes.
“He had real talent,” Leo said softly. “Studied art history at Columbia. Painted too. Better than me.”
“What happened?”
Something shuttered behind the old man’s expression.
“He became heir.”
Ah.
“He didn’t have time for art after that?” I asked carefully.
Leo let out a humorless chuckle. “No. Men like us rarely get the luxury of pursuing beauty for beauty’s sake.” The sadness in his voice surprised me. “It’s the life. Nobody gets out.”
The words had an ominous feel to them and I looked away, suddenly uncomfortable.
For a while we stood in silence, the rain ticking against the skylight. Then Leo spoke again, his focus lingering on a small, unframed canvas turned to face the wall.
“Has he told you about the war?”
I shook my head. “He doesn’t talk about it.”
“No. He wouldn’t.” The old man lowered himself onto a paint-flecked stool, suddenly looking every one of his years. “In the Rangers, his unit called themselves Ghost Company. Dante led them. He loved those men like brothers.”
I stayed very still, afraid that if I moved, he’d stop talking, and I wanted to hear this. I wanted to understand what Dante wouldn’t say.
“On their last deployment, his commanding officer ordered a strike. It was based on bad intel, or a lie. They were never sure which. The target was meant to be insurgents.” Leo’s jaw tightened. “Instead, it was a local community center. Women. Children. Civilians who had done nothing wrong.”
My stomach turned over.
“Dante tried to stop it, but he was too late. He took a bullet trying to protect them.” I thought of the silver scar Dante had inked over rather than hide, the bullet hole he wore where he’d be forced to see it every day.
“When the Army went looking for someone to blame, they didn’t choose the officer who gave the order. They chose Dante and his men.” He almost spat out the words. “Going rogue, they called it. Killing innocents.”
“That’s…” I couldn’t find a word strong enough to describe the injustice. Monstrous didn’t even begin to cover it.
“He came home after that a different person,” he finished.
“Why are you telling me this?” I whispered, my heart breaking for Dante. For the young man he was when he left for war, and the damaged one he was when he returned.
“Because he never will.” Leo’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “And I’m glad he’s got you. You’re good for him.”
Heat flooded my cheeks. Except he didn’t have me. Not anymore. He’d discarded me like a used dishrag that he no longer needed.
“Leo, I think you should know that we’re not…” I trailed off helplessly.
Another shrug. “Call it what you like, but I see the way he looks at you. That’s not nothing.”
I stared at him. Maybe once, but not anymore. A pang stole my breath, and I had to fight not to break into a sob. We’d been happy, for a while. A moment in time. But that was over now. Whatever had been between us had withered away and died.
I didn’t know why I was so surprised. It wasn’t like it was a usual situation. He’d kidnapped me, for goodness’ sake. He was my captor, the man who’d taken advantage of me in all possible ways. I still wasn’t free of him and wouldn’t be until we’d ended this turf war with the cartel.
By the time I left an hour later, rain had started falling steadily across Manhattan.
Kyle got out and opened the SUV door for me. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” I glanced back toward the townhouse windows. “He’s an interesting guy.”
Kyle shot me a crooked grin. “That’s one way of putting it.”
The drive downtown was quiet. Rain hissed against the windshield while gray clouds swallowed the skyline whole.
We’d just crossed into Midtown when the SUV jerked violently sideways and the windshield exploded.
“Jesus Christ!” Kyle swore as he spun the wheel.
I screamed and ducked as gunshots erupted around us. Oh God. It was happening again, and this time I didn’t have Dante to protect me.
Automatic fire punctured the air. Glass shattered across my lap as Kyle headed for a line of parked cars.
“Stay down!” he cried, keeping his foot on the gas. It was so loud I had to block my ears.
I heard him grunt and curse under his breath as blood sprayed across the driver-side window.
“Kyle—!” My scream tore through the SUV as he slumped against the wheel before dragging himself upright again through sheer force of will.
“Shit, Kyle. Are you okay?”
“I’m hit,” he gritted out, hitting the brake.
Gunfire hammered the vehicle again, bullets ripping through metal as the SUV skidded to a halt in the middle of the rain-slick street.