Page 456 of Rosetti Family New York
"Can I help you?" Her voice has warm honey tones that make me think of things I shouldn't. Things that would horrify her brothers. Things that would probably horrify her, at least at first.
I move closer, watching her reaction. She doesn't step back, doesn't show fear, just watches me with those sharp green eyes that see more than they should. This close, I can smell her perfume—something expensive and subtle that makes me want to find where she dabbed it on her skin.
The possessive feeling intensifies. Two days of hunting her, and now she's right here, close enough to touch. Close enough to grab. Close enough to show her exactly what kind of danger she's been courting with this little escape attempt.
But I force myself to maintain control. To approach this strategically instead of giving in to the urge to simply take what I want.
"I'm looking for someone," I say, keeping my voice level despite the dark satisfaction coiling in my chest. "Carmela Rosetti. Her family is worried."
4 - Carmela
“I’m sorry, I don’t know anyone by that name.”
The lie rolls off my tongue even as my pulse races. He doesn't move, doesn't even blink—just stands there like he has all the time in the world to wait for me to stop pretending.
"Is that so?" His voice is low, controlled, with an edge that makes my skin prickle.
Those gray eyes bore into mine with uncomfortable intensity, and I realize with a sinking feeling that he's not buying my act for even a second. This man—this dangerous stranger who walked into my gallery asking for Carmela Rosetti—sees right through me like I'm made of glass.
He's older—maybe mid-thirties—with hair kept short in a style that screams former military. Broad shoulders fill out his worn leather jacket, and his hands look like they could break bones or save lives with equal skill. There's something about the way he holds himself, all contained violence and rigid control, that makes my body respond in ways I don't quite understand.
My pulse quickens—from alarm, obviously. It has nothing to do with the way he commands the space around him without even trying.
"Just looking," he says finally, turning away to examine the paintings like we're really going to pretend this is about art. Hestudies each piece like he's cataloging escape routes instead of appreciating brushwork.
I should walk away. Should let Emma handle this clearly uninterested customer. Instead, I find myself fascinated by the contradiction he presents—controlled violence wrapped in a leather jacket, studying art like it might attack him.
"Are you interested in contemporary pieces, or do you prefer something more traditional?" I gesture toward the featured collection, noting how his gaze tracks my movement with an awareness that makes me think of the predator documentaries I used to watch.
"Depends what's on display." His focus shifts to me with uncomfortable intensity. "You seem familiar. Have we met?"
My voice stays bright and cheerful—my default setting, my armor. "I don't think so. I'm Lara. Lara Montague. But I'd be happy to help you find whatever you're looking for."
His lips curve in what might be amusement, and the expression transforms his harsh features into something unexpectedly beautiful. Like a Caravaggio painting—all dark shadows and dangerous light.
God, what is wrong with me that I'm thinking about Renaissance art while being interrogated?
"Lara Montague. And what does Lara Montague think about this piece?" He nods toward an abstract painting—all sharp angles and bleeding colors.
"I think it represents someone trying to escape something they can never really leave behind," I say honestly, then immediately regret the revelation.
"Interesting interpretation." He steps closer, and I catch his scent—clean soap and something medicinal. Hospital smell. "What makes you think they're running?"
"The way the colors bleed at the edges. Like they're trying to break free from the frame but can't quite manage it." I study the painting instead of looking at him, afraid of what I might see in those knowing eyes.
"Maybe they're not running," he says quietly, voice dropping to something almost intimate. "Maybe they just haven't figured out that some cages exist for a reason."
The words cut too close to home, and I force my brightest smile. "That's certainly one way to look at it. Art's subjective, isn't it?"
"I'm sure it is… Carmela."
My blood turns to ice, the cheerful mask slipping for just a second before I snap it back in place. "I'm sorry?"
"Drop the act. You might have fooled yourself into thinking you can play normal, but some of us know exactly who you are."
I lift my chin, clinging to the pretense. "I think you have me confused with someone else. But like I said, I'd be happy to help—"
His laugh is rough, unforgiving. "Carmela Rosetti, youngest daughter of Antonio Rosetti. Twenty-three years old, graduated from Northwestern with an art history degree. Should I continue?"
