Page 95 of Vow Of Fire

Then again, I knew better than most that people collected art for all sorts of reasons other than love. Prestige. Investments. Tax advantages.

Oh, and let’s not forget money laundering. That one had shot to the top of my list.

I was pretty sure that wasn’t the case here, though. Whoever had curated this collection had taste. Expensive taste, sure, but real taste too. Nothing felt random or bought purely to impress guests. There was a personal touch to it. Every piece balanced texture against contrast, violence against beauty, as if whoever chose them understood both intimately.

I glanced over my shoulder at Dante again. “You really don’t care about any of this?”

His dark eyes met mine. “I didn’t say that.”

I felt an unexpected ripple of curiosity. Had I underestimated him? Dante rarely gave anything away, but now that I thought about it, he’d never once pretended the art meant nothing either.

And then there was the whole Ophelia thing. He’d known exactly who the woman was in the painting hanging above my bed. I opened my mouth to ask more questions, but he shut me down with a curt, “I’ll show you to your room.”

Without a backward glance, he strode farther into the apartment. I followed him down a short hallway branching off the main living space. There were four doors in total, all painted white, which contrasted stylishly with the muted charcoal of the walls, the brushed brass handles catching the soft recessed light.

“This is the guest bedroom.” He leaned forward to twist the handle, then pushed the door open. Once again, he stood back to let me enter.

I stopped short, gazing around in awe. The room was beautiful.

Unlike the masculine minimalism of the rest of the apartment, this space was softer and lighter. Elegant rather than overtly feminine, it had been decorated in dusky pinks, warm creams, and pale taupe.

A large, upholstered bed sat against the far wall beneath a curved velvet headboard, layered with textured throws and expensive-looking linen cushions. Floor-to-ceiling curtains in a soft champagne framed the windows, while a cream boucle armchair sat tucked into one corner beside a gold reading lamp and a stack of glossy books.

The whole look was calming and luxurious.

I turned back to Dante. “Whose room is this?”

“My sister stays here sometimes,” he replied.

“Did she design it?” I asked, skimming my fingers over the edge of the dresser.

He smirked, but not unkindly. “God, no. It was professionally styled by someone my mother knows.”

That explained it. There were definite feminine touches everywhere. The velvet curtains, the brushed gold accents, the carefully layered textures that softened the room without making it feel overly delicate.

“Whoever she is has exquisite taste.”

Dante leaned one shoulder against the doorframe and watched me with that same unreadable intensity that always made me feel like he was seeing far more than he let on.

“Glad you like it.”

He left me to settle in, returning a short while later with my suitcase and the canvas bag from the SUV. Clearly one of his minions had brought them up.

He also handed me my phone. “Call Chloe,” he said tersely. “Tell her you’ll be in tomorrow.”

I took it gratefully. The battery was dead, but he nodded to the socket beside the bed. “There’s a charger there.”

Of course there was.

“What about the cartel?” I bit my lip. “If they already went to my apartment⁠—”

“They probably won’t make a move at the gallery, but I’ll have armed security inside and outside just in case.” I tried to picture Kyle and Max blending into the polished, arty clientele and almost laughed. It wasn’t like the cabin, where they could openly stand around armed with assault rifles.

“They’ll be discreet,” he added, as if reading my mind.

“I hope so,” I murmured.

“One more thing.”