Page 8 of Vow Of Fire

Before he could answer, Isabella interjected.

“We heard Mateo Reyes was exhibiting at the Agora and were excited to view his work. Our grandfather is a big fan. I hope you don’t mind us gatecrashing?” Her smile told me she didn’t care if I did.

“Of course not. You’re very welcome.” I raised an eyebrow. “Was there anything in particular you wanted to see?”

Another controlled smile. I noticed how the icy sheen in her cobalt-blue gaze didn’t thaw, not one tiny bit. She was, however, rocking an expert smoky eye.

“We’ll let you know.”

“By all means.” I resisted the urge to ask her where she’d got her shoes and gestured for them to take a look around. “Let me know if you have any questions about the artist.”

Isabella gave a nod and they moved off. Normal chatter resumed, and while there were still several people looking in our direction, others had gone back to admiring the art.

On Chloe’s instruction, a server offered the newcomers a glass of champagne. They both accepted a flute. I couldn’t tear my eyes away as Dante took a sip. He lowered the glass and caught me staring. I flushed.

Great. Now my cheeks would clash with my hair and make me look hot and flustered—which I absolutely was.

He lifted his glass in my direction.

“Shit,” I muttered, lifting mine back.

Way to go, Evie. Very professional.

With a sigh, I turned away and necked what was left of my champagne.

“I heard Dante left the military under a cloud,” Chloe told me, reappearing at my side. “Apparently his unit went rogue and killed a bunch of civilians.”

I frowned. “Really?”

“That’s what they’re saying.”

“Who?” I countered, my gaze finding its way back to the broad shoulders of the man in question.

“People magazine.”

I scoffed. “Don’t believe everything you read.”

“You know what they say,” she murmured. “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

I rolled my eyes at her. Chloe was a celebrity gossip queen. It came in pretty handy in our industry, I had to admit. But she was fairly gullible.

“I seem to recall reading the older Marcelli brother’s in politics,” I mused.

“Marco Marcelli,” she said with a nod. He’s got a lot of political clout, but I don’t think he’s actually in office. Way too shady. He’s more the type that will get you there or ruin your career if you step out of line.”

A kingmaker.

“According to this true crime podcast I listened to,” she continued, “nobody dares oppose them. The last person who tried ended up ‘falling’ off a high-rise at a private party downtown.” She made air quotes with her fingers.

I’d heard that story too. Didn’t know if there was any truth to it.

Dante and his sister had stopped in front of Reyes’s The Fire Within. The painting was a modern inferno, all red swirls and incandescent heat, oil paint dragged through with palette knives, lacquer flashing like embers, graphite scarring the surface like glowing coals. It was composed of deep strokes and layered textures, and if you looked closely, you could almost make out a silhouette lost in the flames. It was one of my favorite pieces.

The artist had told me it symbolized strength despite adversity, or maybe because of it. The flames were soft, encompassing, but weirdly not frightening. They caressed, rather than ravaged. I liked that.

There was now a red dot beside it to signify that it had been sold, as per Mikhail Orlov’s request.

I watched Dante’s gaze slide over it, after which he murmured something to his sister. I wondered if he too was interested. At first glance, he didn’t strike me as the arty type, but you never knew what turned people on.