Dante’s Inferno #2
The only daughter in the Marcelli family was even more striking in the flesh than in her photographs.
Dark hair fell loose and poker-straight down her back, and she had a fine gold hoop through her nose.
Her black cocktail dress clung to her svelte figure like wet paint on a canvas.
On her feet were the most gorgeous pair of silver stilettos.
Admittedly, there was a hard edge to her beauty, but her confidence was unmistakable, and she seemed indifferent to the effect she was having on the other guests. The men gaped open-mouthed, while the women stared in envy.
“They’re not the type to RSVP,” I admitted, watching as Dante Marcelli scanned the room until he settled on me.
Chloe elbowed me in the ribs. “I think that’s your cue.”
“Ouch,” I hissed under my breath.
“Go.” She nodded insistently at the couple.
“Aren’t you coming with me?” I whispered back.
“Oh no.” She took a nervous step back, raising her hands. “No, no, no.” It wasn’t like Chloe to shy away from potential purchasing power.
I threw her a sharp look.
“Fine. I’m not scared of them.” I straightened my shoulders, stuck a winning smile on my face, and hurried over to greet the couple.
Since the woman stood in front of the man, I held out a hand to her first. “Good afternoon. Thank you for coming. I’m Evelyn Cruz, the owner. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
Her grip was cool, but firm.
“Isabella Marcelli,” she said, in a throaty voice.
I bowed my head. “Pleasure.”
Then, I turned to him.
“This is my brother, Dante,” Isabella said by way of introduction.
He held out a large, tanned hand, and I took it, noticing, on the back of it, a single inked rose whose stem twisted into the coils of a snake before vanishing beneath his sleeve. Beauty and venom, I thought, right there on his skin.
“Ms. Cruz.” His voice was deeper than I expected, rough at the edges. It sent shivers down my spine. Also, my hand was on fire. His grip was hard and hot, and I felt the heat steal up my arm and into my body.
He held it just long enough for me to feel the roughness of his palm, before releasing me.
I pulled back, watching his gray eyes narrow like he was assessing me and finding me lacking in some way.
I felt suddenly naked, despite the high-necked, silk chiffon Carolina Herrera gown that offered more than a respectable amount of coverage. It was part of their latest collection, and I’d bought it especially for this occasion.
“Is there something wrong, Mr. Marcelli?” I asked, testily. Did I have something in my teeth? Was my mascara smudged? Surely Chloe would have told me.
Before he could answer, Isabella interjected.
“We heard Mateo Reyes was exhibiting at the Agora and were excited to view his work. Our grandfather is a big fan. I hope you don’t mind us gatecrashing?” Her smile told me she didn’t care if I did.
“Of course not. You’re very welcome.” I raised an eyebrow. “Was there anything in particular you wanted to see?”
Another controlled smile. I noticed how the icy sheen in her cobalt-blue gaze didn’t thaw, not one tiny bit. She was, however, rocking an expert smoky eye.
“We’ll let you know.”
“By all means.” I resisted the urge to ask her where she’d got her shoes and gestured for them to take a look around. “Let me know if you have any questions about the artist.”
Isabella gave a nod and they moved off. Normal chatter resumed, and while there were still several people looking in our direction, others had gone back to admiring the art.
On Chloe’s instruction, a server offered the newcomers a glass of champagne. They both accepted a flute. I couldn’t tear my eyes away as Dante took a sip. He lowered the glass and caught me staring. I flushed.
Great. Now my cheeks would clash with my hair and make me look hot and flustered—which I absolutely was.
He lifted his glass in my direction.
“Shit,” I muttered, lifting mine back.
Way to go, Evie. Very professional.
With a sigh, I turned away and necked what was left of my champagne.
“I heard Dante left the military under a cloud,” Chloe told me, reappearing at my side. “Apparently his unit went rogue and killed a bunch of civilians.”
I frowned. “Really?”
“That’s what they’re saying.”
“Who?” I countered, my gaze finding its way back to the broad shoulders of the man in question.
“People magazine.”
I scoffed. “Don’t believe everything you read.”
“You know what they say,” she murmured. “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”
I rolled my eyes at her. Chloe was a celebrity gossip queen. It came in pretty handy in our industry, I had to admit. But she was fairly gullible.
“I seem to recall reading the older Marcelli brother’s in politics,” I mused.
“Marco Marcelli,” she said with a nod. He’s got a lot of political clout, but I don’t think he’s actually in office. Way too shady. He’s more the type that will get you there or ruin your career if you step out of line.”
A kingmaker.
“According to this true crime podcast I listened to,” she continued, “nobody dares oppose them. The last person who tried ended up ‘falling’ off a high-rise at a private party downtown.” She made air quotes with her fingers.
I’d heard that story too. Didn’t know if there was any truth to it.
Dante and his sister had stopped in front of Reyes’s The Fire Within.
The painting was a modern inferno, all red swirls and incandescent heat, oil paint dragged through with palette knives, lacquer flashing like embers, graphite scarring the surface like glowing coals.
It was composed of deep strokes and layered textures, and if you looked closely, you could almost make out a silhouette lost in the flames. It was one of my favorite pieces.
The artist had told me it symbolized strength despite adversity, or maybe because of it. The flames were soft, encompassing, but weirdly not frightening. They caressed, rather than ravaged. I liked that.
There was now a red dot beside it to signify that it had been sold, as per Mikhail Orlov’s request.
I watched Dante’s gaze slide over it, after which he murmured something to his sister. I wondered if he too was interested. At first glance, he didn’t strike me as the arty type, but you never knew what turned people on.