"For a majority of the people here, it's not about art," he says. "These people think they're better than everyone else. It's all about prestige, nothing else.”
I blink.
If I'm not mistaken, I think I just heard a switch in his accent. It sounded so similar to the way Dante speaks when he's upset about something. For the first time, I wonder if Dante and Enzo knew each other as kids. It would explain a lot of things. The dynamic between the two of them is more like brothers than anything else.
I watch Enzo for a moment.
He looks different today. His hair is slicked back, and he’s wearing thick black glasses. Even the features of his face seem subtly different, almost as if he’s wearing a carefully crafted disguise.
Dante catches me staring at his friend. He gives me a questioning look.
I clear my throat. “Who are we here to see?”
“Ivy Blackwood,” he replies.
My eyes widen. “Ivy Blackwood, the fashion designer?”
“You know her?” he asks.
“Of course I know her,” I say. “She’s an icon in the industry.”
Ivy Blackwood’s sustainable fashion line, known for its stunning designs, is featured across every major fashion blog and magazine.
“How can she help you find Ida?” I ask.
Dante blinks when I say his sister’s name out loud. Enzo’s face turns red.
“Respectfully, this isn’t any of your business,” Enzo says.
“She deserves to know.” Dante’s voice holds a warning.
“She doesn’t need to know shit,” Enzo snaps.
Dante stops in his tracks. “She is my wife, and you will speak to her with respect. Is that fucking clear to you?”
Enzo grits his teeth. Behind the rage, I see hurt.
They switch from English to Italian, their voices rising with every word.
The vein on Dante’s forehead starts pulsing as his face flushes red. I glance around to see that we're drawing attention. Two security guards are already heading our way. We’re seconds from being thrown out of the museum.
I need to do something.Now.
I rise to my tiptoes and press my lips to the shell of Dante’s ear.
And I make a confession.
"Dante, take me somewhere we can be alone,” I say. "I've been so wet since you kissed me at the altar."
He takes a deep breath, showing no indication that he even heard me.
But then he turns toward me.
There's red-hot desire in his eyes. It makes everything in me melt.
He wraps his arm around my waist and drags me toward an exit. The second we’re alone, he lifts me into his arms.
“You shouldn’t have said that, little bird,” he says. “If I don’t have you now, I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”
