Page 6 of Dante
"The best time to appreciate art," I respond. "No distractions."
She studies me for a long moment, weighing something in her mind. I can almost see the debate playing out behind those expressive green eyes. Finally, she unlocks the door but doesn't open it.
"Five minutes," she says when I step inside. "Then I really need to finish closing up."
The gallery feels different now. Intimate, the soft lighting creating shadows that dance across the artwork. Or maybe it's just that we're alone, without her brother's watchful glare or the crowd of art enthusiasts between us.
"Successful evening?" I ask, following her into the main display area.
"Very." A genuine smile touches her lips, pride evident in her posture. "Sophia's work resonated with exactly the right people."
"Including the mysterious buyer for her centerpiece," I comment, stopping in front of the Florence skyline painting. "Your brother seemed quite... possessive of it."
Elena's expression tightens. "Marco doesn't know anything about art."
"But he knows quite a bit about possession." I move closer to her, testing the boundaries. "About keeping valuable things under his control."
She takes a subtle step back. "Is that why you're really here? To discuss my brother?"
"No." I gesture to the painting. "I'm here because I want this piece, and I don't particularly care if Marco has other plans for it."
Her eyes widen slightly. "You're serious."
"I rarely joke about things I want, Elena."
The use of her first name hangs between us, more intimate than it should be. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, showing a smudge of what looks like blue paint on her temple. The imperfection is oddly captivating on an otherwise polished woman.
"The piece is listed at forty thousand," she says, business-like now.
"I'll pay sixty." I step closer to the painting, admiring the artist's technique. "It captures something about Florence that photographs never do. A feeling, rather than just the view."
Elena moves beside me, her surprise evident. "You know Florence well?"
"I spent summers there as a boy. My mother's family had a villa outside the city." It's more personal information than I typically share, but something about her draws it out of me. "This reminds me of watching the sunset from the hills of Fiesole."
"Sophia spent a year there," Elena says, her voice softening. "She told me she painted this after climbing to the top of the Duomo at dusk. Said she wanted to capture not what Florence looked like, but what it felt like to stand above it all, surrounded by centuries of beauty and tragedy."
I turn to look at her, struck by the passion in her voice. In this moment, she's forgotten who I am, what I represent. She's simply sharing something she loves with someone who appears to understand.
"Beauty and tragedy," I repeat. "Often inseparable, aren't they?"
Her eyes meet mine, searching. "Is that your experience of the world, Mr. Veneziano?"
"Dante," I remind her, softer this time. "And yes. The most beautiful things are often the most tragic. Or the most dangerous."
She breaks eye contact first, moving away to the small desk near the front of the gallery.
"I'll need to draw up paperwork for the sale," she says, professional mask back in place. "I can have it ready tomorrow, if you'd like to come back during business hours."
"Or we could discuss it over dinner."
She freezes, pen hovering above a notepad. "Dinner?"
"Yes, Elena. A meal shared between two people with mutual interests." I approach her desk, enjoying the way she straightens her spine, refusing to be intimidated by my presence. "Tomorrow evening. There's a small restaurant in the old quarter. Trattoria del Cielo. Eight o'clock."
"I don't think that would be appropriate." She sets the pen down. "You and my brother are... business rivals."
"Is that what he calls it?" I lean against the desk, invading her space. "And do you always do what's appropriate?"
