Chapter 4

Evelina sat in the small, glass-walled office, staring at the monitor. The Valenti Collection database glared back at her, a chaotic mess of expensive assets. She was still wearing the silk clothes from the fitting the black fabric felt scratchy and wrong, clinging to her skin. It was an hour past the time Dante had scheduled for her to be working, and she hadn't moved. She was paralyzed by the coffee packet incident.

He hadn't raised his voice. He hadn't touched her. He had simply crushed something small and cheap, and in doing so, he had crushed a piece of her. It was the calculated cruelty she feared the most. He didn't just want her to obey; he wanted her to surrender her will, even her petty tastes.

The rage was cold, not hot. She wasn't going to scream or throw the vase. That was a childish move, and Dante would just clean it up and bill her the price. She was going to fight him where he was weakest: his ego.

She opened the digital file for the contemporary abstract he’d asked her to analyze. The artist was notorious for elaborate forgeries earlier in their career, a detail Dante's haphazard records wouldn't catch. This wasn't just about art; it was about money and reputation. Dante ran an empire built on the illusion of perfection, and she was the only one in the building capable of finding the genuine flaws.

Evelina spent the next four hours buried in provenance logs and auction house archives. She ignored the expensive, ergonomic chair and sat hunched forward, ignoring the gnawing hunger in her stomach. She needed to deliver a perfect, devastating piece of work. A memo so precise, so undeniable, that he couldn't simply dismiss it with a sneer.

When she finally printed the report, it was seven pages long, dense with footnotes and financial projections. Her conclusion was brutal: the contemporary piece was a masterpiece, but the secondary Baroque acquisition he was considering was a certified fake that had been sold and repurchased multiple times to hide the poor provenance. Buying it would be a humiliating, multi-million dollar mistake.

She placed the report in a slim, black folder and slid it onto the corner of her desk. She checked her watch. 19:30. She needed to prepare for the dinner service a ritual she dreaded more than the work.

Just as she was heading toward the bedroom, the heavy outer door clicked open. Dante.

He didn't announce himself, and he wasn't wearing a suit. He was dressed in a simple dark t-shirt and custom trousers. It was a jarring change, he looked less like a CEO and more like a predator who had shed his ceremonial skin. He looked younger, harder, and somehow more dangerous.

He didn't speak. He walked straight past the living room, heading directly to the office. He didn't even glance at her. He knew she was there. He knew the report was there. He walked over, picked up the black folder, and flipped it open without reading the first page.

He walked back out, settling into the large, low couch. He started reading, his expression flat, but his eyes moved with brutal speed over the complex data.

Evelina stood in the doorway, watching him. This was the moment. If he dismissed her work, her last weapon, her intelligence was gone.

After five tense minutes, Dante closed the report. He tossed the folder onto the coffee table. He looked up at her, finally acknowledging her existence.

“The Baroque piece,” he stated, his voice low. “The seller is Sforza, yes?”

“Yes. A private sale through the Geneva broker. I flagged the secondary ownership loop in 1998. It’s an easy mark for money laundering. The piece is flawed; the crack near the signature is post-restoration.” Evelina spoke quickly, professionally, fighting the urge to fidget.

Dante didn’t congratulate her. He didn't even nod. “Sforza is a difficult partner. This will complicate the negotiations.”

“The truth complicates bad deals,” she retorted, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

He didn't get angry. He actually gave her that rare, thin, dangerous smile the one that made the skin crawl on the back of her neck.

“You’re quick, Evelina. And thorough. You’re also utterly predictable.”

She felt a fresh wave of heat rise in her chest. “Predictable? I just saved you millions.”

“You did exactly what I expected you to do,” Dante countered, his voice soft, almost mocking. “I hired you because you are obsessive about the truth and incapable of letting a flaw pass unchallenged. I knew you would flag the Sforza piece. I wanted to confirm your utility.”

He stood up, walking toward her, his proximity instantly shrinking the massive room. “You think your mind is your shield. You think because you are intellectually superior to the criminals I deal with, you have leverage. You don’t. I anticipated your analysis. I anticipated your defiance. And now I will anticipate your revenge.”

He stopped just a foot away. He wasn't touching her, but the air felt heavy, possessive.

“We are having dinner now. You will wear the Sforza gown. That Baroque piece, the fake one you just ruined, is part of a complex deal. Your job tonight is to ensure Sforza still trusts me enough to sign the rest of the paperwork. You will be charming, flawless, and convincing. You will make him forget his pride and focus on you.”

The implications hit her like a physical blow. He was forcing her to charm the man whose deal she had just professionally sabotaged. He was using her as a human, intelligent lure.

“You want me to commit fraud, or at least moral manipulation, on your behalf?” she whispered, the cold reality settling in.

“I want you to justify your continued existence here,” he said simply. He raised his hand, and this time, he did touch her. His fingers brushed the bare skin of her shoulder, a light, cold contact that sent a shock down her arm. He wasn't being intimate; he was marking her.

“Go get dressed, Evelina. Tonight, you remind everyone what I own.”

He dropped his hand and walked away, leaving her standing alone, smelling the faint, expensive scent of his cologne. She felt physically sick. She hadn't just saved him money; she had proven her value as a tool. Her intellect wasn't a shield; it was a more valuable asset he now controlled.

She didn't cry. She walked to the closet and pulled out the suffocating black silk gown. She had to be perfect tonight. She had to survive.