Page 13 of A Dangerous Kind of Love

I hand the empty coffee cup back to Luca as I walk toward him.

“You move the Florence shipment?”

Adam nods toward the open warehouse doors behind him.

“Private room. Seals were intact when we opened the crate.”

Inside the warehouse, workers move around us with practiced efficiency, forklifts carrying pallets toward the far loading bays. Adam leads us toward a secured door near the back wall. He punches a code into the keypad. The lock clicks.

Inside, the room is quiet. A single wooden crate sits in the center of the floor under bright overhead lights. Adam crosses the room and pries the lid loose with a crowbar. The wood creaks before giving way. Inside, wrapped carefully in layers of cloth, is a painting. Even before the cloth is fully pulled back, I recognize the color palette—deep reds and golds from a Renaissance piece that hasn’t been publicly displayed in decades.

Marco whistles quietly. I study the painting before straightening.

“Second piece?”

Adam gestures to the crate beside it.

“Still sealed.”

I glance toward Luca.

“Have Donnelly paid by this afternoon,” I say. “But I want to know who convinced him to start asking questions.”

Marco nods once.

“I’ll find out.”

I check the time on my watch. It’s still early. There’s still plenty of time before I have to go sit politely across a table from Rosalia’s parents and pretend any of this engagement nonsense has something to do with love.

Chapter 5

Michael

I’m greeted the moment the front doors of the Messina estate swing open.

“Mr. Amato,” Matteo Messina booms, stepping forward with his hand already extended. “We are so thrilled you could make it.”

The enthusiasm is performative at best. Still, I take his hand and give it a brief shake before releasing it. His wife, Camilla, stands beside him wearing a perfectly rehearsed smile.

“You know my wife, Camilla,” Matteo continues smoothly. “And of course, Rosalia…your fiancée.”

Rosalia stands next to her mother, watching me. She’s polished as always, her caramel-colored hair pulled into a sleek high ponytail that doesn’t have a single strand out of place. A cream sundress fits her perfectly, paired with delicate heels.

“Rosalia,” I say.

Her expression softens into a genuine smile. “Michael. It’s good to see you.”

I don’t smile back.

A maid steps forward.

“Do you want me to take your suit jacket, sir?”

“Thanks,” I say, shrugging it off my shoulders.

Without the jacket, the gun holstered at my waist is impossible to miss.

“I can take that too,” she says, her voice careful now.