Page 94 of Vow Of Fire

Dante held a key fob up to the scanner on the wall, and the doors hissed open.

We rode the elevator to the eleventh floor. The penthouse.

“You’ll be safe here,” he said as we stepped out onto a landing with marble flooring, recessed lighting, and actual artwork on the walls. “There are men downstairs and one will be posted here, outside the apartment.” He nodded to the only door on this level.

“Okay.” I wasn’t sure if a man with a gun outside the apartment made me feel better or worse.

“After you.” He unlocked the door and stood back.

I hesitated, then blew out a breath and stepped into the apartment that was to be my home for the foreseeable future.

26

THE DARKNESS WITHIN

Evelyn

Istepped into the suite and stared at the plush interior. It looked like a very expensive, luxurious hotel room. But it wasn’t flashy or gaudy, just understated and elegant.

Dark wood floors stretched beneath soft recessed lighting, while floor-to-ceiling windows framed the glittering Manhattan skyline beyond.

Night had already fallen over the city, but ribbons of amber light still glowed along the horizon where the sun had only just sunk behind the buildings.

I jumped as Dante stepped in behind me and shut the heavy door with a loud click. The muted sounds of the city disappeared and we were left standing in soundproofed silence.

He stepped past me and cleared his throat. “I’ll show you around.”

I nodded and followed him as the entrance hall opened up into a vast living area. A charcoal sectional sat opposite a black marble fireplace, and beyond it I caught sight of a sleek kitchen, all steel, smoked glass, and polished stone.

Everything was immaculate. Not a single thing out of place. In fact, it was hard to believe anyone actually lived here. It looked more like a very high-end show apartment than a home.

I shivered, and he instantly frowned. “I’ll turn the heating on. It’s been empty for a while.” Empty because he’d been at the cabin, with me.

I moved farther inside, my mouth dropping open at the incredible artwork on the walls. These were not generic designer prints chosen by some overpriced interior decorator trying to make a billionaire apartment look cultured.

There were originals here. Real originals.

A textured mixed-media canvas hung above the fireplace, all layered charcoal tones and fractured gold leaf that caught the light every time I moved. Across the room, a pair of minimalist graphite studies sat in floating black frames, delicate and precise enough that I immediately recognized the artist as European. Near the windows stood a brutalist bronze sculpture mounted on a plinth, all sharp angles and tension, the sort of piece collectors pretended to understand while secretly buying it because it cost six figures.

But it was the painting near the dining area that stopped me in my tracks. I stared up at the massive abstract oil painting dominating the wall. Violent strokes of crimson slashed through black and ash-gray layers beneath, the composition chaotic and aggressive, yet somehow perfectly balanced. There was movement in it. Fury. Ego. Raw masculine energy.

It reminded me unsettlingly of Dante himself. Beautiful at first glance, but brutal underneath.

I stepped closer, studying the paint texture and brushwork. Even the canvas aging looked authentic.

Swinging round to face him, I whispered, “Is this a real Basquiat?”

Dante glanced at it from across the room. “So I’m told.”

I stared at him. The painting was worth more than most apartments in Manhattan.

“You didn’t acquire it yourself?”

He shrugged, seemingly unaffected. “I was advised to buy it at a charity auction.”

I shook my head, turning back to the piece. The beauty of the art seemed completely lost on him, and as an art lover, that irritated me.

Why own works like this if you didn’t appreciate them?