Page 145 of Vow Of Fire

“Really? Why?” I asked reflexively, then cringed. Not that I cared. What Dante did or thought was no longer a concern of mine.

“He was always a sensitive kid, but he had this spark. Like he wanted to be more than the family, you know?”

“Is that why you call him Fuochino?” I asked.

He smirked. “It was my nickname for him when he was younger. A little spark.” His face clouded over. “It was his father’s death that changed him.”

Okay, he couldn’t drop that on me and not expect me to be just a little bit curious.

“How’s that?” I asked.

“They were very close. When Filippo was murdered, Dante tried to distance himself from the family. When that didn’t work, he signed up with the US Army Rangers.” He snorted. “Ironic, isn’t it? That he left to get away from all this—” he waved his arm in the air— “and ended up becoming the very thing he despised.”

I gritted my teeth.

Shit. Now I was feeling sorry for him. The big asshole had used me, discarded me, and ruined everything I’d built up. He didn’t deserve my sympathy.

I didn’t know how to respond, but luckily, Giselle chose that moment to come back with the tea. She set the silver tray down on one of the footstools. “Will there be anything else, Mr. Marcelli?”

“That’s all for now, Giselle.”

She gave a quick nod and disappeared again.

I hadn’t seen anyone else in the house and wondered what had happened to Mrs. Marcelli. I decided now wasn’t the time to ask.

“Would you do the honors?” He nodded to the teapot. “My hands aren’t as steady as they used to be.”

“Of course.” I poured for each of us, then handed him a teacup. “I heard you’re something of an artist yourself,” I said, eager to change the subject.

He shrugged modestly. “I dabble. It keeps me busy.”

“I’d like to see some of your work, if you don’t mind showing me.”

He nodded, pleased. “Maybe later. Right now, I’d like to hear more about you.”

“Me?” I squeaked. What was there to say about me? I was an open book.

“Yes. Tell me about the Agora, and what attracted you to the art industry.”

So I did. I told him all about my passion for art, my desire to be self-sufficient, and my parents’ death. When I mentioned the light airplane crash that had killed them in Africa, he didn’t bat an eyelid. All he said was, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

I got the feeling that nothing I was telling him was news to him. The Marcellis must have had me thoroughly checked out before they decided to use my gallery to launder their drug money. I wondered if Leo had been the one who’d decided art galleries would be a good front.

It struck me as a decision he would have made.

When I was done, he took me upstairs to his studio. “Nobody comes up here,” he said quietly, as he unlocked the door.

I felt honored that he was entrusting me with a glimpse at his creations.

The room occupied the entire top floor beneath a skylight ceiling, flooded with cool autumn light. Paintings leaned against walls and sat stacked carefully beside shelves filled with oils, charcoal, and old sketchbooks.

And they were good.

Very good.

Not hobbyist-rich-man good; there was talent there.

Leo painted moody urban landscapes mostly. New York in rainstorms. Lonely street corners. Smoky jazz clubs. There was a melancholy to them I hadn’t expected.