Embers beneath ice
The warehouse was abandoned in name only. Inside, men moved crates, murmured codes, loaded unmarked vans. Emilia stayed close to Luca, her heels clicking softly against the concrete.
"This is where the Rembrandt was kept," he said, leading her through a back corridor. "Before the auction. Before De Rossi found out."
The storage room was colder than expected. One wall lined with steel shelves. Another with security monitors.
"What are we looking for?" Emilia asked.
"Signs of tampering," Luca said. "And anything he left behind."
He flicked on the main light.
And froze.
So did she.
In the middle of the floor, someone had carved a word into the concrete using something sharp and jagged:
"BURN."
And next to it, placed delicately on a velvet cloth—was a charred fragment of a painting's frame.
Emilia moved closer, crouching to inspect it.
"This isn't from the Rembrandt," she said. "Wrong texture. Wrong varnish."
Luca's voice was low. "It's a warning."
She looked up. "He's telling you what comes next."
He nodded. "And what he's already done."
---
Evening – De Rossi Family Restaurant (Hell's Kitchen)
Against Luca's wishes, Emilia insisted on coming with Cole. The plan was simple: Cole posed as a buyer interested in acquiring a series of high-end forgeries. Emilia played his art consultant. They'd meet with a De Rossi underboss named Vico, someone known for being greedy enough to talk, but not smart enough to stay loyal.
The restaurant was low-lit and smelled of smoke, olive oil, and betrayal.
Vico arrived fifteen minutes late, sweating through his blazer.
"You said you got money," he grunted to Cole, sliding into the booth.
Cole flashed a smile. "We said we had interest."
Emilia leaned forward slightly, letting her neckline do half the work.
"I've seen your work," she said. "The triptych of Caravaggio fakes? Not bad."
Vico puffed up. "That was mine. Did all the detailing myself."
"And the Rembrandt?" she asked softly.
He froze. "What about it?"
"We heard," she said, "it's no longer in Moretti's hands."
Vico shifted. "Maybe it isn't. Maybe it is. Depends who's asking."
"We're not Feds," Cole said. "We're collectors. But we like to buy with confidence."
"Then you're in the wrong family," Vico muttered. "De Rossi's not in the business of peace. He's in the business of pressure."
Emilia asked the next question carefully. "What does he want with Luca?"
Vico's eyes darted toward the kitchen door. "To burn his legacy down. One canvas at a time. Starting with her."
Her.
Emilia's blood iced.
Cole frowned. "Her?"
Vico looked straight at Emilia. "You."
Then stood, tossing back his espresso like a shot. "You didn't hear it from me."
And just like that, he was gone.
---
Later – Luca's Penthouse
Emilia paced. Fast. Anxious. Restless.
Luca stood at the window, arms crossed.
"He knows," she said. "Vico didn't have to say it out loud—he knows who I am."
"I know."
"And you're not panicking?"
"I don't panic."
She rounded on him. "Then what are you going to do?"
Luca turned to face her.
His voice was low. Controlled. Scary.
"I'm going to make sure he never touches you."
She stared at him.
Not as a mark. Not as a target.
But as a man she wasn't sure she could hate anymore.
"You can't protect me forever."
"I don't need forever. Just long enough to end this."
"And what happens when it ends?" she asked quietly.
"I don't know."
Neither of them did.
But something in both their eyes said: we're already too deep.
The car pulled into a deserted alley where the streetlights flickered like dying fireflies. Emilia stepped out, her breath clouding in the night air. She wore black again—like armor. The wire in her ear buzzed softly.
"You're sure about this?" Cole's voice came through.
"No. But I'm doing it anyway," she murmured, adjusting the tiny mic hidden at her collar.
Tonight wasn't about pretending. It was about baiting a wolf.
Dante De Rossi's latest front—a supposedly shuttered jazz club—was rumored to host private meetings and black market auctions. Word was, he'd be there tonight.
Emilia stepped through the door.
The music was low and rich, dripping through the velvet atmosphere like molasses. Cigarette smoke curled in lazy halos above suited men. The De Rossi crest—a silver dagger across a wolf's paw—hung behind the bar.
And in the back booth, framed in red light and shadows—
Dante De Rossi.
He was younger than she expected. Handsome in a feral, vicious way. Brown hair swept back. Sharp cheekbones. A scar on his jaw like a lover's kiss turned violent.
He noticed her immediately.
Emilia walked toward him as if drawn by gravity. Every step intentional.
"Well, well," Dante said, lips curling. "The ghost from the gala. You made quite the impression."
"I hear I tend to."
He laughed softly. "You're not like the others."
"Neither are you."
A beat of silence.
Then—
"Sit."
She did.
He studied her, eyes sharp. "You're not Moretti's girl. Not really."
"Maybe I'm no one's."
"Even better."
The game began.
They danced in dialogue—art references, veiled threats, double meanings. He offered her wine. She declined. He offered a job. She raised an eyebrow.
"You're not just pretty," Dante said, finally. "You're dangerous. I like dangerous."
"And I like men who underestimate me."
His gaze flared. For a moment, she thought she'd gone too far.
Then he grinned.
"I could use someone like you."
"Doing what?"
"Helping me erase Moretti."
The table fell silent.
Emilia kept her voice steady. "Why me?"
"Because you're already halfway there."
He slid something across the table—a photo. Grainy. Black and white.
Emilia. In Luca's penthouse. Bare shoulders. Holding a wine glass. Smiling.
Taken from a rooftop across the street.
Her heart hammered.
Dante leaned in. "He doesn't protect you. He uses you. But I could give you more than paintings and whispered lies. I could give you power."
Emilia stood.
"I'll think about it."
He didn't stop her.
But his voice followed her as she left.
"Don't think too long, bella. The gallery burns in three nights. With or without you."
---
Early Morning – Luca's Penthouse
She stormed in before the door shut fully behind her.
"He knows everything."
Luca was already up, shirtless, tension carved into his muscles.
"Dante?"
She tossed the photo onto the table. "He's been watching us. Since the night of the gala."
He picked up the photo, eyes narrowing.
"He made me an offer," Emilia continued. "Join him. Help destroy you."
"What did you say?"
She met his eyes. "That I'd think about it."
Something raw flickered in his expression.
"You should've told me," she said. "That you were marked. That this went deeper than the Rembrandt."
Luca didn't blink. "You already knew. You just didn't want to admit it."
She stepped closer. "He's going to burn the gallery."
"Then we won't let him."
"It's not just about the art anymore. He wants your empire. Your blood."
Luca nodded. "Then he'll have to go through hell to get it."
They stood in silence, breathing each other in.
Enemies. Allies. Something else entirely.
Then Luca said quietly, "If something happens to me—"
"Don't."
"You need to be ready."
She didn't answer.
Because she wasn't ready.
But she would be.
She had to be.