They never actually talked about the painting.On the table, a medium-sized canvas rested on a wooden stand. Oil paint, a half-length portrait of a woman against a dark background—quintessentially Flemish, seventeenth century. The provenance of the piece was complicated; if anyone touched it the wrong way, the matter could stretch across a minimum of two countries and one international convention on cultural heritage.Elena stood a few feet back, arms crossed.“Your dealer has nerve,” she said without turning. “Or he genuinely doesn’t know the risk.”“He knows exactly what it is,” Dante answered from his chair. His tone was casual, but his eyes never left Elena. “That’s why he came to me and not to someone else.”“Makes sense.” Elena leaned forward, studying the fine cracks threading through the painting’s varnish layer. “Because everyone else still operates w
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