Chapter 4 - Elena #2
"From a small vineyard near Montepulciano." His eyes stay on mine, assessing. "I have a case delivered each season."
"Of course you do," I smile despite myself. "Let me guess, you also know the vineyard owner personally?"
"His grandfather," Dante confirms with a slight nod. "My father helped him expand in the eighties."
"Helped," I repeat, raising an eyebrow. "Is that what they call it?"
A shadow passes over his face. "Not everything my family does is what you think, Elena."
"And what do I think?" I challenge him.
"That we're monsters," he says simply, without defensiveness. "That everything we touch is tainted."
For a long moment, he says nothing. Then, "There's a difference between capability and nature. I'm capable of terrible things. That doesn't mean it's all I am."
"A semantics game," I say, though his words resonate more than I'd like to admit. "Evil by any other name."
"Perhaps." He doesn't seem offended by my judgment. "But you're here, dining with evil. What does that make you?"
"Curious," I admit. "And possibly foolish."
His smile returns, warming his features. "Honest, at least. We should order. The seafood here is exceptional, caught this morning."
The abrupt change of subject surprises me, but I follow his lead, accepting the menu he extends.
"What do you recommend?" I ask, scanning the elegant, handwritten menu.
"The risotto ai frutti di mare," he says without hesitation. "Unless you don't care for seafood?"
"I love seafood," I admit. "Especially risotto."
When the waiter returns, Dante orders for us both in flawless Italian. There's something mesmerizing about watching him speak, the way his deep voice caresses the syllables.
"So," he says after the waiter leaves, "tell me about your gallery."
"What do you want to know?" I ask cautiously.
"Everything." He leans back slightly, giving me space. "How you started. Why art. The challenges."
I hesitate, unsure how much to share, but there's genuine interest in his expression. "I opened it three years ago, after working at the Corsini Gallery for a few years."
"That couldn't have been easy," he observes. "Commercial galleries have a high failure rate, even with substantial backing."
"It wasn't," I acknowledge, warming to the subject despite my reservations. "Especially since I refused to take money from my family."
"Not a single dollar?"
"Not one," I confirm, unable to keep the pride from my voice. "I took out loans. Worked side jobs. Lived on instant noodles and slept on a mattress in the gallery's back office for six months until I could afford rent."
"Why?" he asks, leaning forward slightly, genuinely curious. "Why refuse help that was undoubtedly offered?"
I take another sip of wine, considering my answer. "Because I needed to know I could do it myself. That it was mine, really mine. Not just another Rossi acquisition."
"And your brother allowed this?" Disbelief colors his tone.
"He didn't 'allow' anything," I say, a hint of defiance creeping into my voice. "It wasn't his decision to make."
Dante watches me thoughtfully, as if reassessing something. "You must have faced significant challenges."
"You have no idea," I laugh softly, the wine and his unexpected interest loosening my tongue. "The first winter, the heating broke during a cold snap. I couldn't afford to fix it, and I had a showing scheduled for a young sculptor I'd promised to support."
"What did you do?"
"Borrowed space heaters from every friend I had," I remember, smiling at the memory. "Bought cheap red wine that we served hot with spices, claiming it was a special 'winter exhibition experience.' The guests loved it. They thought it was intentionally avant-garde."
"Resourceful," he comments, that smile softening his eyes. "And the sculptor?"
"Sold four pieces," I say proudly. "Enough to fix the heating and pay her commission. She's in New York now, quite successful."
Our first course arrives: a delicate carpaccio that melts on my tongue.
"You're not what I expected," I admit when we finish the appetizer.
"What did you expect?" he asks, his expression neutral again.
"Someone more..." I search for the right word. "Obvious, I suppose. Less subtle."
"Subtlety is undervalued," he says, refilling my wine glass. "Especially in our world."
"Our world," I repeat, the phrase a reminder of reality. "We may exist in the same city, Dante, but we don't share a world."
He considers this, head tilted slightly. "Don't we? Both of us navigating expectations imposed by our families. Both of us seeking to create something that's wholly our own."
"The difference," I point out, "is what we're creating. I'm building a space for beauty and expression. You're..." I trail off, unwilling to say the words aloud in this lovely restaurant.
"I'm what?" he presses, his voice dropping lower.
"You know what you are," I say quietly. "What you do."
The main course arrives before he can respond. The seafood risotto he recommended, fragrant with herbs and wine.
"This is incredible," I say after a few bites, genuinely impressed.
"I'm glad you approve." There's a distance in his tone now that wasn't there before.
I've touched a nerve, it seems.