22. Sara
Sara
“Did you mean what you said about wanting to help?”
At Dante’s voice, I surge upright and drop the book I was reading. A stack of smutty romance novels appeared outside my cell door, providing a pleasant diversion in an otherwise dull day. I can only count the cracks in the cement for so long before psychosis sets in.
I scramble to my feet, shocked by the sudden offer. Dante’s avoided me since the incident on the fifth floor, and the solitude provided a lot of time for mental processing.
I thought I knew myself, but my experience with Dante in the interrogation room proved otherwise. Until then, I would have laughed if someone told me I was capable of finding pain and bloodshed…pleasurable. That type of darkness goes against my nature, but I can’t deny its unapologetic appeal.
What does it say about the kind of woman I am that I let Dante do those things to me and even savored them? His actions should disgust me. Instead, the memory of his sharp teeth and strong hands marring my flesh ignites a thrill that races through me.
My life’s calling has been to help people and heal the injured. I have no clue how to reconcile that with the woman who enjoyed screwing while bathed in a stranger’s blood.
Does Dante simply bring out the worst in me?
Before we found one another again, I might have said yes, but now I’m not so sure.
He forces me to view the world—and myself—in more than just black and white.
Dante holds up a mirror, and in the reflection, I glimpse someone who’s so much more than a nurse or her brother’s keeper.
Did you mean what you said about wanting to help?
My answer can only result in more bloodshed and lead us back to that room on the fifth floor where Dante transformed into more beast than man.
He’s giving me the chance I asked for over and over again. The position I wanted solely as a means of aiding my efforts to get away.
But it’s different now. I want to help him achieve his goals in any way that I can.
Not just for him, but for us.
“Of course. Anything you need.” The agreement comes effortlessly, like I’ve waited my whole life to say it. A small step on the long road to atoning for past sins.
Dante’s head jerks back as if he’s stunned by my ready acquiescence. After everything, does he really believe I can be scared away so easily?
A new little seed of hope unfurls in my chest when he enters my cell and sits. He’s careful to leave a gap between us, like he thinks I need the space.
I scoot over until our thighs touch. Dante’s jaw flexes in that way that tells me I’m testing his control.
After a few seconds tick by, some of the tension leeches from his shoulders. “Luca spoke with the prisoner. Jackson.”
Jackson. The name helps clear my head. I didn’t get a chance to talk to the man Dante beat into an unrecognizable mess for very long before Luca dragged him off to the clinic. He lost a good amount of blood, but his injuries weren’t catastrophic.
As gruesome as that session was, Dante obviously was careful to keep the man alive. If given the chance, Jackson should fully recover. I doubt my medical expertise prompted Dante’s request for my help, though.
“Did you…learn anything useful?” I lace my fingers together in my lap, stifling the urge to seek additional contact beyond the pressure of his thigh against mine.
Dante clears his throat and straightens a little. “Maybe. Maybe not. I was hoping you could help me ask him a few more questions. I hear he’s taken a liking to you.”
I huff a laugh, unsure whether a few tentative inquiries beneath a door gap were enough to earn me Jackson’s endearment.
Though, I suppose, compared to Dante’s methods, I could very well be the prisoner’s favorite person.
“Are you sure?” Trepidation creeps in. “What if I can’t get the answers you’re looking for. Will you…punish me?’
His gaze roves over my face as he considers the question. “Do you want me to punish you?”
Maybe my captivity has prompted delusions, because I swear guilt flashes in his eyes before he schools his expression.
“No.” I exhale through my nose and allow myself a moment to rein in my emotions. This feels like a turning point for us both. “I want to help.”
The silence seems endless as I await his verdict.
Finally, Dante speaks. “Jackson’s an art thief.”
Air rushes into my lungs. He’s letting me in. The relief is so knee-shaking that I’m glad I’m already sitting.
If Dante notices my reaction, he doesn’t comment.
He simply runs a hand through his wavy locks and continues.
“According to him, he worked for a man whose sister was an expert at replicating art that’s virtually indistinguishable from the real thing.
At least to the untrained eye. They called the woman the Blue Butterfly.
Jackson stole the original, and the Butterfly’s partner, the Ghost, found buyers on the black market. ”
Restless, Dante pushes up from the bed to pace the length of the cell.
“Usually, someone was sent to confirm the artwork’s authenticity, and once they determined that, the buyer and the Ghost would settle on a price.
The Butterfly created a copy before the art was shipped and sent the forged piece in place of the original. ”
Given the criminal scenario he’s describing, all the intricacies probably shouldn’t impress me so much.
“Which means they could sell the same piece over and over again, and no one knew the difference because of all the private collections. Anyone who found out about the switch would think the authenticator was in on it, which meant the person most likely to spot the fake was also the most motivated to keep their mouth shut.”
Dante tilts his head to the side as a slow smile, one of his real ones, blooms on his lips.
The approving gleam in his eyes does funny things to my stomach.
“Exactly. Many buyers frequent the same circles, so some inevitably discovered the deception. But then what? They couldn’t publicly acknowledge the fraud without appearing foolish and weak. ”
“But nothing stopped them from going after the seller in secret, right?” Pulling my legs up on the bed, I absent-mindedly pick at the skin on my ankles.
As Dante idly strokes the cover of one of the romance books, I can’t help but shiver at the way those fingers glide across the heroine’s body. “Many of them did, but the guy’s nearly impossible to find—”
“Which is why they call him the Ghost.” I finish making the connection.
“Right.” Dante sits at my side again and adjusts the leg of my sweats to cover the irritated flesh. “The Butterfly disappeared a while back, so the art operation went under. The Ghost turned his attention to other things, and he and Jackson went their separate ways.”
My face heats. My dermatillomania isn’t something I’m proud of. I can’t remember when it started, but my guess is not long after my relationship with Dante imploded.
Not that what we have now could be considered a true relationship.
I shift my weight on the bed. “So, how do you think I can help? I’m not exactly an art expert, unless you count my deeply skilled macaroni sculptures from elementary school.”
Dante hunches forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “When we were together, you used to watch all those documentaries about New York’s history. I thought you might have learned about some of the galleries or notable curators?”
I rub my lips together, considering. Before my dad left us, our little family spent every Saturday night in front of a documentary. Dad preferred stories about different places and cultures, but I favored the ones about New York. I loved learning about my city, especially the unsolved crimes.
In retrospect, I suppose I was destined to fall in love with a man in the Italian mafia rather than the prince in a castle my father once promised.
Sometimes, I wonder what my life would be like if my father had loved us enough to stay.
A part of me has always believed he left because I wasn’t a good enough daughter.
Stupid, but when you’re a kid and one of the people who’s supposed to love you the most abandons you, the scars never really heal.
Charlie got my mom pregnant right out of high school, and it always seemed like circumstances and obligation forced the two of them together. In which case, maybe his leaving was always inevitable.
Enough of that. “Jackson can’t just tell you who the Ghost and the Butterfly are? He worked for them, didn’t he?”
Dante frowns. “Not directly. He always dealt with a middleman. Sometimes more than one. Remember the guy I tracked down at the Bazaar? He was one of them. An informant who sells his services to the highest bidder.”
How could I forget? Sighing, I plait my limp hair to busy my fingers. What I wouldn’t give for a good leave-in treatment right about now.
I mentally scan the useless NYC factoids that inhabit my brain, edging out important knowledge like how to properly fold a fitted sheet or calculate a twenty-percent tip without my phone.
“The closest thing I can think of that might fit the bill is a gallery heist from the early nineties. This curator was about to be arrested for helping the thief when all the stolen artwork was returned.”
Dante frowns, confused. “They brought all the stolen artwork back?”
I’m practically bouncing on the cot. I’ve always loved that story. “Yup. The curator got off, and the police were never able to find the other culprits. Afterward, the woman disappeared, and the gallery was shut down.”
Dante strokes his jaw. “It’s not much, but it couldn’t hurt to research the details. Do you remember the curator’s name?”
I blow out a breath and tug on my braid. The pressure against my scalp helps center me, ebbing my anxiety. “It was really unique. Beautiful too…” I stare off into nothingness until the name hits me like a bolt of lightning. “Dulce.”
Dante falls into a trancelike stillness. “Dulce Conti.” Shaking his head, he grips my upper arms and yanks me to my feet. When I yelp, his hold softens but remains firm. “Are you sure?”
Panicked that somehow, I’ve said something wrong, I nod fervently. “I-I’m not lying. I swear. Dulce Conti. And the gallery was…it was s-somewhere near—”
At my stumbling, remorse flickers across Dante’s face. He releases me to smooth his hands down my arms. “It’s okay, bella. I believe you.”
Longing replaces my trepidation. I miss his touch, both the brutal and kind, and I reach for him as he turns away.
“Dante.” My stomach knots with dread. “Do you know her? Dulce Conti?”
His shoulders are stiff as he grips the door handle.
“Yes. She was my mother.”