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?"
"The best time to appreciate art," I respond. "No distractions."
She studies me for a long moment, weighing something in her mind. I can almost see the debate playing out behind those expressive green eyes. Finally, she unlocks the door but doesn't open it.
"Five minutes," she says when I step inside. "Then I really need to finish closing up."
The gallery feels different now. Intimate, the soft lighting creating shadows that dance across the artwork. Or maybe it's just that we're alone, without her brother's watchful glare or the crowd of art enthusiasts between us.
"Successful evening?" I ask, following her into the main display area.
"Very." A genuine smile touches her lips, pride evident in her posture. "Sophia's work resonated with exactly the right people."
"Including the mysterious buyer for her centerpiece," I comment, stopping in front of the Florence skyline painting. "Your brother seemed quite... possessive of it."
Elena's expression tightens. "Marco doesn't know anything about art."
"But he knows quite a bit about possession." I move closer to her, testing the boundaries. "About keeping valuable things under his control."
She takes a subtle step back. "Is that why you're really here? To discuss my brother?"
"No." I gesture to the painting. "I'm here because I want this piece, and I don't particularly care if Marco has other plans for it."
Her eyes widen slightly. "You're serious."
"I rarely joke about things I want, Elena."
The use of her first name hangs between us, more intimate than it should be. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, showing a smudge of what looks like blue paint on her temple. The imperfection is oddly captivating on an otherwise polished woman.
"The piece is listed at forty thousand," she says, business-like now.
"I'll pay sixty." I step closer to the painting, admiring the artist's technique. "It captures something about Florence that photographs never do. A feeling, rather than just the view."
Elena moves beside me, her surprise evident. "You know Florence well?"
"I spent summers there as a boy. My mother's family had a villa outside the city." It's more personal information than I typically share, but something about her draws it out of me. "This reminds me of watching the sunset from the hills of Fiesole."
"Sophia spent a year there," Elena says, her voice softening. "She told me she painted this after climbing to the top of the Duomo at dusk. Said she wanted to capture not what Florence looked like, but what it felt like to stand above it all, surrounded by centuries of beauty and tragedy."
I turn to look at her, struck by the passion in her voice. In this moment, she's forgotten who I am, what I represent. She's simply sharing something she loves with someone who appears to understand.
"Beauty and tragedy," I repeat. "Often inseparable, aren't they?"
Her eyes meet mine, searching. "Is that your experience of the world, Mr. Veneziano?"
"Dante," I remind her, softer this time. "And yes. The most beautiful things are often the most tragic. Or the most dangerous."
She breaks eye contact first, moving away to the small desk near the front of the gallery.
"I'll need to draw up paperwork for the sale," she says, professional mask back in place. "I can have it ready tomorrow, if you'd like to come back during business hours."
"Or we could discuss it over dinner."
She freezes, pen hovering above a notepad. "Dinner?"
"Yes, Elena. A meal shared between two people with mutual interests." I approach her desk, enjoying the way she straightens her spine, refusing to be intimidated by my presence. "Tomorrow evening. There's a small restaurant in the old quarter. Trattoria del Cielo. Eight o'clock."
"I don't think that would be appropriate." She sets the pen down. "You and my brother are... business rivals."
"Is that what he calls it?" I lean against the desk, invading her space. "And do you always do what's appropriate?"
A flash of defiance crosses her face. "When it comes to my gallery's reputation, yes."
"This has nothing to do with your gallery." I reach out, gently removing the smudge of paint from her temple with my thumb. She doesn't flinch, though her breath catches. "This would be between you and me. Nothing to do with your brother, or our... rivalry."
"Everything has to do with Marco in this city," she says, but I can hear the hesitation in her voice. She's tempted, despite her better judgment.
"Not everything." I straighten, giving her back her space. "Think about it. The offer stands. For both the painting and dinner."
She looks up at me, conflict evident in her expression. "Why me? If this is some game you're playing with my brother—"
"If I wanted to play games with Marco, I wouldn't need you to do it.
" The bluntness of my response surprises her.
Good. Let her see a glimpse of truth among my fierce words.
"I'm interested in you, Elena. Your determination to build something separate from your family legacy. Your eye for beauty others miss."
I move toward the door, pausing with my hand on the handle. "Your brother has nothing to do with my interest in you. In fact, he's the only reason I've kept my distance until now."
"Kept your distance?" She follows me, confusion evident. "You didn't even know me until tonight."
I allow myself a small smile. "I make it my business to know everything about this city. Including the most interesting people in it." I open the door, letting in the cool night air. "Eight o'clock tomorrow, Elena. Come alone, or don't come at all."
Outside, the rain has begun to fall lightly, giving the street a glossy sheen under the lamplight. I don't look back as I cross to my waiting car, though I can feel her watching me through the gallery windows.
"Back to the house," I tell Raphael as I slide into the rear seat.
"Everything all right, sir?" he asks, eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror.
"Fine." I pull out my phone, scrolling to a particular contact. "Drive."
As we pull away from the curb, I dial Franco.
"The shipment from Palermo," I say when he answers, "double the security. Marco Rossi is getting desperate."
"You think he'll make a move?" Franco's voice is measured, calm.
"I know he will." I glance back at the gallery, just visible now through the rain-streaked window. Elena still stands in the doorway, watching my car disappear into the night. "He's running out of options."
"And his sister?" Franco asks. "Raphael mentioned you spoke with her tonight."
"She's exactly what we need." I turn my attention forward again, mind already calculating the next moves in this game. "Innocent of her brother's activities, but with access we could never get otherwise."
"Using her is risky," Franco cautions. "If Marco realizes—"
"I'm not using her," I interrupt, surprising myself with the vehemence in my tone. "At least, not only using her."
"Sir?" Franco's confusion is evident even through the phone.
I don't elaborate. How could I explain what I barely understand myself? That standing in that gallery with Elena Rossi, discussing art and beauty and Florence, I felt something I haven't experienced in years—a connection that has nothing to do with power or business or the bloody legacy I've built.
"Have the team watching Marco report directly to me," I say instead. "And find out who he's planning to sell that painting to. There's more happening there than an art transaction."
After ending the call, I lean back against the leather seat, closing my eyes briefly.
Elena's face appears in my mind. Those expressive green eyes, the defiant tilt of her chin, the unconscious grace with which she moves through her gallery.
She's a complication I don't need. A weakness I can't afford.
And yet, as we drive through the rain-slicked streets toward my penthouse, I find myself thinking not of business or rivalries or the ever-present threat of betrayal, but of the way she looked standing before that painting of Florence.
Passionate, alive, untouched by the darkness that surrounds her family name.
She won't come tomorrow night. She shouldn't. For her own safety, she should stay as far from me as possible.
But God help me, I hope she comes.
Because Elena Rossi is forbidden in every way that matters. Sister to my enemy, innocent to my guilt, light to my darkness. And like every forbidden thing I've ever encountered, I find myself willing to risk everything just to possess her.
Even if it means war.