Page 12 of Vow Of Fire

His brother Marco Marcelli appeared to have the most public profile, and from what I could gather, was the spokesperson of the business. The entire empire, once ruled by Leo Marcelli, was now run by Valentina, his daughter-in-law and Dante and Isabella’s mother.

One article called them “the last true dynasty of New York.” Another described Valentina Marcelli as “one of the city’s most formidable businesswomen.”

None of them mentioned organized crime. At least not directly. Reading between the lines, however, I caught the insinuations. There were references to dubious waste management contracts, waterfront shipping interests, and generous political donations.

A police investigation into a construction worker’s messy end had fizzled out due to lack of evidence. One “staff reporter” described the Marcellis as “a family whose influence extended far beyond legitimate enterprise.”

The fact the journalist hadn’t used their own name was telling.

A deep dive into Dante Marcelli had proven more interesting. Like Chloe had said, he’d served in the military after graduating from NYU with a Bachelor of Arts degree. Now that was interesting.

The celeb gossip website I was on mentioned US Army Rangers, saying he’d been attached to the 75th Ranger Regiment. I didn’t know exactly who they were, but according to this obviously smitten reporter, the war hero had been deployed multiple times overseas. Clearly she didn’t know about the rogue unit rumor.

As I read on, I became more absorbed.

Eleven years ago, while a twenty-three-year-old Dante had been stationed overseas, his father Filippo Marcelli had been shot dead during a convenience store robbery in Brooklyn. It appeared to be a random incident. Wrong place, wrong time. Except the shooter was never caught.

I frowned. Dante had lost a parent too. We had that in common.

While mine had died on vacation in Africa, his father had been murdered in cold blood. My loss had been sudden and unexpected, but his had been violent and mercenary. That had to change a person.

I thought about the intense, scowling man who’d walked into my gallery that night. Maybe I was beginning to understand him a little better.

Further reading told me that, four years ago, Dante had suddenly left the military and returned to New York. Since then, he’d joined the family business as Head of Security. In a pixelated photograph attached to the article, Dante stood beside Valentina in yet another expensive-looking black suit. They appeared to be at some charity gala. He wasn’t smiling.

I shivered, pulling my robe tighter around me. Even in the black-and-white image, he still managed to radiate danger. I recognized that molten stare. The arrogant tilt of his head.

Right on cue, warmth bloomed low in my belly.

I drew in a steadying breath and resolved not to think about him anymore. I wouldn’t remember how my hand had felt encased in his, and how the heat of his touch had left me tingly and breathless.

Or how he’d run the back of his hand down my cheek, like he knew me.

I shivered.

Dante Marcelli wasn’t the first rich and powerful man I’d met. In my line of work, those were a dime a dozen.

My patrons were billionaires, celebrities, athletes, and oligarchs. Most of them lusted after art because of what it said about them, not what it meant. Most pieces ended up in climate-controlled vaults or penthouse basements, seen only by insurance assessors and the occasional mistress. For them it was about possession, not beauty.

When the movie finished and Rick had watched Ilsa fly off into the night with Laszlo, I stared at the darkened TV for a long beat and wondered if I could have left the man I loved standing on the tarmac in the rain.

Except Dante wasn’t that man.

He was no one.

Yet, that night, it was his face that haunted my dreams.

4

OPHELIA

Dante

The Marcelli penthouse overlooking Fifth Avenue on the Upper East Side had never felt like home to me. It was too big, too clean. The kind of place that looked perfect in magazines but felt cold and impersonal once you stepped inside.

Everything was white and polished, from the marble floors and high ceilings to the glass walls that showed off the skyline.

I took the private elevator straight to the top floor, watching the numbers climb. The only sound was the low hum of the internal mechanism. There was no background music to relax to, just that steady mechanical noise and the faint creak of metal.