The Darkness Within
Evelyn
Istepped into the suite and stared at the plush interior. It looked like a very expensive, luxurious hotel room. But it wasn’t flashy or gaudy, just understated and elegant.
Dark wood floors stretched beneath soft recessed lighting, while floor-to-ceiling windows framed the glittering Manhattan skyline beyond.
Night had already fallen over the city, but ribbons of amber light still glowed along the horizon where the sun had only just sunk behind the buildings.
I jumped as Dante stepped in behind me and shut the heavy door with a loud click. The muted sounds of the city disappeared and we were left standing in soundproofed silence.
He stepped past me and cleared his throat. “I’ll show you around.”
I nodded and followed him as the entrance hall opened up into a vast living area. A charcoal sectional sat opposite a black marble fireplace, and beyond it I caught sight of a sleek kitchen, all steel, smoked glass, and polished stone.
Everything was immaculate. Not a single thing out of place. In fact, it was hard to believe anyone actually lived here. It looked more like a very high-end show apartment than a home.
I shivered, and he instantly frowned. “I’ll turn the heating on. It’s been empty for a while.” Empty because he’d been at the cabin, with me.
I moved farther inside, my mouth dropping open at the incredible artwork on the walls. These were not generic designer prints chosen by some overpriced interior decorator trying to make a billionaire apartment look cultured.
There were originals here. Real originals.
A textured mixed-media canvas hung above the fireplace, all layered charcoal tones and fractured gold leaf that caught the light every time I moved.
Across the room, a pair of minimalist graphite studies sat in floating black frames, delicate and precise enough that I immediately recognized the artist as European.
Near the windows stood a brutalist bronze sculpture mounted on a plinth, all sharp angles and tension, the sort of piece collectors pretended to understand while secretly buying it because it cost six figures.
But it was the painting near the dining area that stopped me in my tracks.
I stared up at the massive abstract oil painting dominating the wall.
Violent strokes of crimson slashed through black and ash-gray layers beneath, the composition chaotic and aggressive, yet somehow perfectly balanced.
There was movement in it. Fury. Ego. Raw masculine energy.
It reminded me unsettlingly of Dante himself. Beautiful at first glance, but brutal underneath.
I stepped closer, studying the paint texture and brushwork. Even the canvas aging looked authentic.
Swinging round to face him, I whispered, “Is this a real Basquiat?”
Dante glanced at it from across the room. “So I’m told.”
I stared at him. The painting was worth more than most apartments in Manhattan.
“You didn’t acquire it yourself?”
He shrugged, seemingly unaffected. “I was advised to buy it at a charity auction.”
I shook my head, turning back to the piece. The beauty of the art seemed completely lost on him, and as an art lover, that irritated me.
Why own works like this if you didn’t appreciate them?
Then again, I knew better than most that people collected art for all sorts of reasons other than love. Prestige. Investments. Tax advantages.
Oh, and let’s not forget money laundering. That one had shot to the top of my list.
I was pretty sure that wasn’t the case here, though.
Whoever had curated this collection had taste.
Expensive taste, sure, but real taste too.
Nothing felt random or bought purely to impress guests.
There was a personal touch to it. Every piece balanced texture against contrast, violence against beauty, as if whoever chose them understood both intimately.
I glanced over my shoulder at Dante again. “You really don’t care about any of this?”
His dark eyes met mine. “I didn’t say that.”
I felt an unexpected ripple of curiosity. Had I underestimated him? Dante rarely gave anything away, but now that I thought about it, he’d never once pretended the art meant nothing either.
And then there was the whole Ophelia thing. He’d known exactly who the woman was in the painting hanging above my bed. I opened my mouth to ask more questions, but he shut me down with a curt, “I’ll show you to your room.”
Without a backward glance, he strode farther into the apartment.
I followed him down a short hallway branching off the main living space.
There were four doors in total, all painted white, which contrasted stylishly with the muted charcoal of the walls, the brushed brass handles catching the soft recessed light.
“This is the guest bedroom.” He leaned forward to twist the handle, then pushed the door open. Once again, he stood back to let me enter.
I stopped short, gazing around in awe. The room was beautiful.
Unlike the masculine minimalism of the rest of the apartment, this space was softer and lighter. Elegant rather than overtly feminine, it had been decorated in dusky pinks, warm creams, and pale taupe.
A large, upholstered bed sat against the far wall beneath a curved velvet headboard, layered with textured throws and expensive-looking linen cushions.
Floor-to-ceiling curtains in a soft champagne framed the windows, while a cream boucle armchair sat tucked into one corner beside a gold reading lamp and a stack of glossy books.
The whole look was calming and luxurious.
I turned back to Dante. “Whose room is this?”
“My sister stays here sometimes,” he replied.
“Did she design it?” I asked, skimming my fingers over the edge of the dresser.
He smirked, but not unkindly. “God, no. It was professionally styled by someone my mother knows.”
That explained it. There were definite feminine touches everywhere. The velvet curtains, the brushed gold accents, the carefully layered textures that softened the room without making it feel overly delicate.
“Whoever she is has exquisite taste.”
Dante leaned one shoulder against the doorframe and watched me with that same unreadable intensity that always made me feel like he was seeing far more than he let on.
“Glad you like it.”
He left me to settle in, returning a short while later with my suitcase and the canvas bag from the SUV. Clearly one of his minions had brought them up.
He also handed me my phone. “Call Chloe,” he said tersely. “Tell her you’ll be in tomorrow.”
I took it gratefully. The battery was dead, but he nodded to the socket beside the bed. “There’s a charger there.”
Of course there was.
“What about the cartel?” I bit my lip. “If they already went to my apartment—”
“They probably won’t make a move at the gallery, but I’ll have armed security inside and outside just in case.” I tried to picture Kyle and Max blending into the polished, arty clientele and almost laughed. It wasn’t like the cabin, where they could openly stand around armed with assault rifles.
“They’ll be discreet,” he added, as if reading my mind.
“I hope so,” I murmured.
“One more thing.”
I turned.
“There’s a charity auction at the Guggenheim tomorrow night. We’re going.”
I blinked at him, the name ringing a bell. “Oh God. I was supposed to attend that.”
“I know. It’s in your calendar.”
I was about to ask how the hell he’d seen my schedule, but then I knew.
Nico.
“You said we’re going. Did you mean together?”
He gave a firm nod. “It’ll be a good way to show everyone that you’re now under my protection.”
“Everyone” meant Sergei and his organization, I guessed. I ignored the strange flutter that caused in my stomach.
“They’re auctioning an exquisite Varela,” I said, recalling why I wanted to go. “Nocturne in Red, it’s called.”
“Malakov wants it,” Dante said simply.
I stared at him. “How do you know that?”
“Marco knows one of the assistant curators,” he replied. “And this gives us an opportunity.”
Slowly, realization dawned. “You want the Colombians to outbid him.”
He gave a tight nod.
“But how do we know they’re going to be there? Or even if they’ll bid on the painting?” I perched on the edge of the bed.
“We’ll make sure they do. One of their usual intermediaries will place telephone bids through a shell company out of Bogotá. Malakov will believe the cartel is muscling in on his territory.”
I frowned. Okay, the intermediary was a nice touch, but it wasn’t foolproof.
“What if they trace the buyer? Find out he’s a fraud, or worse, connected to you?”
“They’ll find exactly what they expect to find,” Dante retorted. “A company structured the same way as the cartel’s. Same region. Same paper trail. Close enough to be believable.”
I let out a shaky breath. They’d thought of everything.
“You can set all that up in less than twenty-four hours?” I asked, my voice quivering.
His expression didn’t change. “Vincent is very effective.”
“Yes. I know,” I said dryly.
I hadn’t forgiven the double-crossing snake for lying to me.
We ate a quiet dinner of truffle ravioli, grilled sea bass, and rosemary focaccia delivered by a man Dante seemed to know, called Federico. I didn’t have much of an appetite, but it smelled good, and after the last few days, I knew I needed the sustenance.
It had started to rain, and the soft pitter-patter against the floor-to-ceiling windowpanes lent a cozy ambiance to the penthouse. The whole situation felt strangely domestic and I could almost forget there were armed guards outside and a ruthless cartel supposedly trying to kill me.
Dante barely touched the wine Federico had brought up with the food, but I had a glass to steady my nerves. He spent most of dinner checking his phone, replying to messages, and studiously ignoring me.
Every so often, however, his gaze would flick toward me as if to check that I was still there, but he didn’t try to engage in conversation.