Chapter 5 - Dante #2
"My mother insisted," she explains with a small shrug. "She said no true appreciation of art was possible without understanding Italian."
"A wise woman," Paolo approves, throwing me a meaningful glance that I choose to ignore.
After saying our goodbyes, we step outside into the cool night air. The street is quiet now, most of the nearby restaurants having closed for the evening. My car waits at the curb, Raphael standing beside it with his usual alertness.
"Ms. Rossi," he nods respectfully as we approach.
"I’m guessing you know my adress," she says to him, a statement rather than a question.
"Of course, ma'am," he replies, opening the rear door.
Elena hesitates, looking up at me. The streetlight casts half her face in shadow, giving her an air of mystery that suits her. "This has been... unexpected."
"In a good way, I hope," I say, keeping a short distance between us on the sidewalk.
"I haven't decided yet," she repeats her earlier sentiment, a small smile playing at her lips.
I gesture toward the open car door. "After you."
She slides into the back seat, the dark fabric of her dress shifting against the leather as she settles herself. I follow, instructing Raphael to take us to Ms. Rossi's apartment.
The interior of the car is intimate in its darkness, the privacy partition creating a bubble that feels removed from the world outside. Elena stares out the window as we pull away from the curb, her profile thoughtful in the passing streetlights.
"You never answered my question," she says after a few moments of silence. "About what you are. What you do."
I study her, weighing my response. "Would an honest answer change anything between us?"
She turns to face me, expression serious. "It might."
"I am what circumstance and choice have made me," I say. "A businessman with interests that occasionally require... unconventional protection."
"That's a very diplomatic way of saying you're the head of a criminal organization," she observes, no judgment in her tone, just statement of fact.
"Some would use those words," I acknowledge. "Others would say I provide services and security in areas where legitimate options are limited or nonexistent."
"And which would you say?" she presses.
"I'd say the truth is rarely simple, Elena." I maintain eye contact, letting her see that I'm not being evasive, merely precise. "The world isn't divided neatly into legal and illegal, right and wrong. There are always gray areas."
"And you live in those gray areas."
"I thrive in them," I correct her. "As does your brother, though our approaches differ."
She turns back to the window. "Marco thinks he's protecting me by keeping me separate from his business."
"Isn't he?"
"No." Her voice hardens slightly. "He's protecting himself. My ignorance gives him deniability if things ever go wrong. 'My poor innocent sister knew nothing.' It's a shield, not a kindness."
Her insight surprises me. Most people in her position would accept the comfortable fiction of protection, grateful for the distance from ugly realities. But Elena sees the truth of it, even if she chooses not to confront it directly.
"And yet," I point out, "you've maintained that separation yourself. Built your gallery with clean money, as you put it."
"That's different," she insists. "That was my choice, not his. I don't need protection. I need autonomy."
The car falls silent after that exchange, both of us retreating to our thoughts.
The city passes by outside, transitioning from the old quarter with its narrow streets and historic buildings to the more residential area where Elena lives.
It's a pleasant neighborhood. Not ostentatious, but comfortable, with small cafes and boutiques now closed for the night.
"This is me," she says as we pull up to a renovated pre-war building with a modest but well-maintained facade.
I scan the street automatically—a habit so ingrained I do it without conscious thought. The sidewalks are empty at this hour, the streetlights casting pools of yellow light at regular intervals. Nothing seems out of place, and yet...
"Wait here," I tell Raphael as he pulls to the curb. "I'll see Ms. Rossi to her door."
Raphael's eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, a silent question that I answer with a subtle nod. He's been with me long enough to recognize when I sense something isn't right.
"That's not necessary," Elena begins, but I'm already opening my door.
"Humor me," I say, extending my hand to help her from the car. "Old-world manners die hard."
She accepts with a small smile, her hand warm in mine. "I suppose chivalry isn't completely dead, even in your line of work."
"Especially in my line of work," I correct her, releasing her hand but staying close as we approach her building. "Respect and tradition are essential when operating outside conventional structures."
The entrance to her building is well-lit, a small lobby visible through glass doors. As we reach the short flight of steps leading up to it, movement in the shadows to our right catches my attention. I shift subtly, positioning myself between Elena and the potential threat.
"Your key?" I ask casually, maintaining a relaxed posture while every sense goes on high alert.
She rummages in her small purse, producing a set of keys. As she moves to unlock the door, I notice more movement. Four figures emerging from the shadows of the adjacent alleyway, moving with purpose.
"Elena," I say quietly, "when I tell you to, I want you to go inside, lock the door."
Her head jerks up, confusion in her expression. "What? Why would I—"
"We have company," I interrupt, turning to face the approaching men. Russian, by their builds and movement patterns. One has a distinctive tattoo visible on his neck—a stylized eagle. Moretti's crew. Interesting.
"Veneziano," the leader calls out, his accent confirming my assessment. "Little far from home, aren't you?"
"Gentlemen," I respond evenly, cataloging their positions, stances, the subtle bulges that indicate weapons. Knives, most likely, not guns. They want this quiet. "I wasn't aware we had business."
"We don't," the leader says, moving closer. The four of them spread out, attempting to flank us. "But your dinner companion's brother does."
Elena stiffens beside me. "What does Marco have to do with this?"
"Everything, sweetheart," the Russian smirks. "He's been stepping on toes lately. Our boss thought we'd send a message."
I hear the car door open behind us. Raphael, moving to support. Good.
"Go inside, Elena," I say, voice firm.
"I'm not leaving you out here," she responds, surprising me.
"How touching," the leader mocks, drawing a wicked-looking hunting knife from inside his jacket. His companions do the same, the metal gleaming in the streetlight. "The lady wants to watch."
Everything happens quickly after that. Two of the men rush forward, one toward me, one toward Raphael, who has positioned himself on my left. The leader and the fourth man hang back slightly, waiting to see how the initial engagement plays out.
The first attacker lunges with his knife, a straightforward thrust aimed at my midsection.
Amateur. I step aside, letting his momentum carry him past me, then deliver a precise strike to his kidney that sends him stumbling forward.
Before he can recover, I catch his knife arm, twisting it behind his back with enough force to make him drop the weapon.
Beside me, Raphael has engaged his opponent with the efficiency I've come to expect from him. A quick feint, a counterattack, and the second attacker is on his knees, blood streaming from his broken nose.
The leader curses, then signals to the fourth man. They both advance now, more cautious after seeing their companions dispatched so easily. These two are more experienced. Their stances more balanced, their approach more strategic.
"Elena," I say again, keeping my eyes on the approaching threats, "Get inside."
Instead, I hear her purse clasp snap open behind me. The leader feints left, then attacks from the right, his knife a silver blur. I block, redirecting his momentum, but he recovers quickly, circling back for another attempt.
The fourth man sees an opening, diving toward Elena while I'm engaged with the leader. I pivot, ready to intercept, but Elena is faster than I expected. As the man lunges, she swings her heavy purse with surprising force, catching him across the face. He staggers backward, momentarily stunned.
"Get away from him!" she shouts, fierce in her defiance.
The distraction costs me. The leader's knife slices through my sleeve, drawing a line of fire across my forearm. I suppress the pain, grabbing his wrist and twisting sharply, hearing the satisfying crack as bones give way. His scream echoes in the quiet street.
The first attacker has recovered now, retrieving his dropped knife and circling back. Raphael has his hands full with his opponent and the fourth man, who has shaken off the effects of Elena's improvised weapon.
Blood trickles warm down my arm as I face the first attacker again. He's more cautious this time, recognizing I'm not an easy target. He feints, testing my reflexes, looking for weakness.
"Dante!" Elena's warning comes just as the leader, despite his broken wrist, charges again from my blind spot.