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.
Mia is already there, organizing the sales paperwork from last night.
"Successful doesn't begin to cover it," she says, grinning as she hands me a stack of receipts. "We sold eight pieces, including the triptych to that New York collector. Sophia is going to flip when she hears."
"Nine pieces," I correct her, setting my bag down. "The Florence skyline has a buyer too."
"Really? Who?" She looks up from her clipboard, excited.
I hesitate. "I'm still finalizing the details."
The morning passes in a blur of paperwork, calls to buyers, and a lengthy, emotional conversation with Sophia in Florence, who breaks down in tears when I tell her how much her work sold for.
By early afternoon, I'm finally alone in the gallery, enjoying the quiet after the previous night's commotion.
That's when I see it… A small, beautiful floral arrangement on my desk that definitely wasn't there earlier. White roses and sprigs of lavender in a simple crystal vase, with a small card nestled among the blooms.
My heart beats faster as I open it.
_Eight o'clock. I'll be waiting. - D_
How did he get in? I glance at the gallery's security system, wondering if I should be concerned, then remember that Mia was here earlier. He must have sent them with a courier.
I touch one of the rose petals, soft and perfect against my fingertip. The gesture is both elegant and presumptuous. He assumes I'll come, despite everything that stands between us.
For the rest of the afternoon, I move through my tasks in a fog of indecision. Part of me—the sensible, self-preserving part—knows I should stay far away from Dante Veneziano. But another part, a part I barely recognize, is drawn to him with a force I can't explain.
At six-thirty, I lock the gallery and walk home, still undecided.
In my apartment, I stand before my closet, staring at my options. If I were going to dinner with a dangerous, attractive man who happens to be my brother's enemy—which I'm absolutely not—what would I wear?
My hand reaches for a black dress I've owned for years but rarely worn. Simple but elegant, with a neckline that hints rather than reveals, and a hem that falls just above my knees. I pull it out, holding it against me as I look in the mirror.
"This is insane," I tell my reflection. "You're not going."
But twenty minutes later, I'm stepping out of the shower. By seven-fifteen, my hair falls in soft waves around my shoulders, my makeup is subtle but flawless, and I'm zipping up the black dress.
At seven-thirty, I call a taxi.
"Where to?" asks the driver.
I hesitate for one final moment. "Trattoria del Cielo, in the old quarter."
The restaurant is tucked away on a narrow, cobblestone street, its facade understated except for a small blue sign with golden stars.
No flashy entrance, no line of luxury cars outside.
Just a discreet door and warm light spilling from small windows.
The kind of place locals keep secret from tourists.
My hands are trembling slightly as I approach the entrance. I can still turn around. Still walk away.
Instead, I push open the door.
The interior is cozy and intimate. Perhaps a dozen tables, well-spaced, with amber lighting that casts a warm glow over everything.
Exposed brick walls, dark wood beams overhead, and the delicious scent of authentic Italian cooking filling the air.
At the far end of the room, a man rises from a corner table.
Dante.
He wears a charcoal gray suit tonight, perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders and lean waist, no tie, the top buttons of his white shirt undone.
Less formal than yesterday, but no less commanding.
His eyes find mine across the room, and for a moment, everything else fades away.
The other diners, the soft music playing in the background, the rational voice in my head screaming at me to leave.
I move toward him, aware of the hostess watching with interest, aware of my pulse quickening with each step.
"You came," he says when I reach the table, his expression neutral despite the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes.
"I was in the neighborhood," I reply, attempting nonchalance even as my heart races. "And I thought we could discuss your offer for the painting."
A small smile curves his lips, as though he sees right through my pretense. "Of course. Business." He pulls out my chair like a gentleman. "Though I hope you'll allow me to feed you while we negotiate."
"I suppose that would be acceptable," I say, settling into my seat, watching as he returns to his own chair.
He doesn't sit too close. Doesn't reach for my hand. Doesn't make any of the forward gestures I half-expected. Instead, he maintains his distance, watching me with those perceptive eyes that seem to catalog my every reaction.
"This place is beautiful," I say, looking around at the intimate restaurant. "How did you find it?"
"It's been here for three generations," he replies, signaling subtly to a waiter who approaches with a bottle of wine. "The owner's father was a friend of my grandfather's."
The waiter pours a small amount for Dante to taste, then fills our glasses when he nods approval.
"So, you've been coming here since you were young," I observe, taking a sip of the rich red wine. It's exceptional, of course.
"Since I was a boy," he confirms, something softening briefly in his expression. "Though in those days, I was limited to grape juice while the men talked business."
The image of a young Dante, solemn and observant while surrounded by men like my father and his, makes something twist in my chest. How different might our lives have been if we'd been born into different families?
"The wine is excellent," I say, bringing myself back to the present.