“You need to eat. We have a long day ahead.”
“The hell I do.”
Damian leaned forward, his voice low but edged with steel. “Daisy, what did I tell you about me?” he asked. “You knew who I was. You wanted the darkness. Now you’re sitting at the table with it.”
One sentence—razor-sharp, impossible to refute. He had warned me from the beginning. No mask, no sweet lies. And I had still said yes. I had wanted him, all of him. Even the part that now cut me open. But knowing what you were stepping into didn’t make it easier when the cold finally sank its teeth in. Mypride flared, my heart screamed. But I stayed silent. There was no answer—nothing that could undo his truth.
“You know what? You’re right. I’m sorry for acting like this. You made it clear who you are, what you want, and what you don’t. Let’s just have lunch in peace. I don’t want to fight.”
Damian studied me for a long beat. “You look beautiful.”
“When do we meet the archaeologist?”
“After lunch we’ll drive to Latina—about two hours. We’ll spend the evening there.”
The waitress returned with small plates: carpaccio, oysters, lobster salad, truffle risotto.
“Tell me about him—how do you know this man?” I asked, picking up my fork.
“His name is Professor Giovanni Bellini, one of the most renowned archaeologists and historians in Italy. I met him years ago at a conference in Rome.”
“And what makes him exceptional in your eyes?”
“Bellini doesn’t just have immense knowledge of ancient cultures. He has an uncanny intuition for artifacts—for their meaning. He’s worked on some of the most significant excavations in Italy and Egypt. His research has led to discoveries that changed everything.”
“That does sound impressive.”
“I want him to examine the Phoenix and give us his verdict. Bellini is one of the very few people I trust, especially with something of this value. His eye for detail could give us the decisive answer.”
“I see.” I took another bite, acutely aware of Damian’s gaze fixed on me. “I’m curious what he’ll say about the pendant. My gut tells me it’s the original.”
“After this meeting, we’ll know.”
Mr. Bellini’s estate was tucked into the streets of Latina—a grand, timeworn beauty ringed with flowers: roses, lavender, jasmine spilling from every corner. Gravel crunched underfoot as we parked and stepped out.
On the wide terrace stood Mr. Bellini—an older gentleman with white hair and glasses—flanked by a lady and a strikingly handsome young man in loose linen trousers and a white shirt.
Damian turned to his driver and bodyguards. “I’ll call when we’re ready to be picked up.”
The men nodded and drove off.
“Welcome to my humble home,” Bellini greeted, shaking Damian’s hand warmly. “It’s been too long.”
“You’ve gotten old,” Damian remarked without ceremony.
Bellini chuckled. “Yes, yes. Time doesn’t stop.”
Damian shifted, gesturing toward me. “This is my employee, Daisy Elfhorn. Thanks to her sharp eye, we’re here today.”
Bellini clasped my hand and brushed a gentleman’s kiss across my knuckles. “An honor, Miss Elfhorn.” He motioned to the young man beside him. “This is my son, Aleandro. And next to him, our housekeeper, Maria.”
Maria gave a polite nod, and we returned it.
“Aleandro,” Damian said with a crooked grin, “hardly recognizable. You’ve grown.”
“That I have.”
“He turned twenty-two this weekend,” Bellini added.
