Page 65 of Dante

But the old guard doesn’t respond that way.

Silvio’s face is like stone, unreadable. His eyes lock on Dante, burning with something I can’t quite name. Fury? Betrayal?

As soon as the applause dies down, Angie rushes over to me and grabs my hand.

“Oh my God,” she whispers. “There’s going to be blood on the walls!”

“What do you mean?”

“Your husband just declared war on the old ways.”

I stare at her. “The old ways meaning Silvio-style brutality?”

Angie nods. “Everyone suspected Dante was leading toward a more moderate approach, but he just declared it in black and white.”

“Is Dante in danger?” I ask, my voice tight.

Angie bites her lip. “A mob boss is always in danger. But today, Dante spoke what he’s kept hidden for so long. It’s a declaration of something. I just don’t know exactly what yet.”

“But is the danger from within the outfit or outside?”

Angie meets my eyes. “Maybe both.”

CHAPTER 24

GINA

It takes several long moments for the room to settle after Dante finishes speaking.

People cluster in small groups, their voices low but urgent.

Some of the older men speak in Italian, but everywhere I look, people stare at Dante—some with reverence, others with barely concealed fury.

Angie’s statement about this ending in blood chills me to the bone.

I can’t wait to get Dante alone and ask him what this means. Is it truly a declaration of war?

Fortunately, the open bar soon does its work. Once people have a gin and tonic or a glass of wine in hand, the edges smooth over. Almost.

Eventually, the museum director returns to the podium, his smile practiced and smooth.

“Well now,” he says, waiting for the room to quiet. “Before we adjourn for the evening, I have one more announcement.”

He gestures toward the wall behind him, where a canvas stands on an easel covered by a burgundy cloth.

“Silvio Ricci has generously donated another work of art to the exhibition, one that will hang side by side with the portrait of the family founder. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you a portrait of Silvio Ricci himself.”

He pulls the cloth away with a flourish, and the room gasps.

I probably gasp the loudest.

It’s my sketch—the caricature I drew at Silvio’s dinner party last night, now professionally framed.

While the guests applaud, two gentlemen take the portrait and mount it on the wall next to Salvatore.

Robert Smith speaks once more. “Though the artist of Salvatore Ricci’s portrait has been lost to time, we have the name of Silvio’s artist. And she’s right here in the room, Mrs. Gina Ricci.”

“Your caricature from last night!” Angie whispers beside me.