Chapter 6 - The Price of a LifeJulian had never liked Dante.
This was important.
He tolerated him.
He respected his money.
He appreciated the restoration grants.
But Julian regarded Dante the way museum curators regarded humidity.
Dangerous.
Unavoidable.
Potentially destructive if not carefully controlled.
So when Vittorio Bellandi kidnapped him because of us, guilt arrived quickly.
“He has nothing to do with this.”
Dante was already loading a pistol.
“He employs you.”
“That is not a crime.”
“Depends on the week.”
“Not helping.”
Bellandi sent instructions twenty minutes later.
Ledger for Julian.
Midnight.
No police.
Naturally.
Villains apparently attended the same hostage-negotiation seminar.
Dante wanted to send a fake ledger.
I refused.
“We give him the real one.”
“No.”
“There are copies.”
“No.”
“We photographed every page.”
“No.”
“Are you capable of saying anything else?”
“Yes.”
“Great.”
“No.”
I threw a cushion at him.
He caught it.
The criminal underworld feared Dante Moretti.
I attacked him with home décor.
Relationships were about balance.
Sofia entered.
“Vittorio will kill Julian anyway.”
I disliked how calmly she said it.
“How do you know?”
“Because that is what he does.”
Dante looked at her.
“What would make him hesitate?”
“Exposure.”
I understood immediately.
“He needs the ledger destroyed, not recovered.”
Sofia nodded.
“Exactly.”
“So we release it.”
Dante turned.
“To whom?”
“Everyone.”
The room went silent.
I continued.
“Museums. Journalists. Interpol. Prosecutors. Insurance investigators. Every institution connected to stolen art.”
Rocco smiled slowly.
“I like her.”
Dante did not.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because once Bellandi realizes the ledger is public, Julian becomes useless.”
“That’s the point.”
“No. He becomes disposable.”
That stopped me.
Dante came closer.
“We get Julian first.”
“How?”
“We make Bellandi believe there is only one copy.”
I understood.
“Then betray him afterward.”
“Yes.”
“That is surprisingly dishonest.”
“I’m a criminal.”
“Former-ish criminal.”
“Semantics.”
At 11:48 p.m., we arrived at an abandoned auction warehouse in Red Hook.
I stayed in the armored vehicle.
That had been the agreement.
Not because Dante ordered it.
Because this time, after actual discussion, I agreed.
Growth.
He kissed me before leaving.
“Ten minutes.”
“If you’re not back?”
“Rocco takes you home.”
“No.”
“Leo.”
“If you’re not back, I wait fifteen.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Twelve.”
“Fourteen.”
“Thirteen.”
“Deal.”
He kissed me again.
Then disappeared.
At twelve minutes, gunfire started.
At thirteen, I opened the door.
Rocco grabbed my arm.
“We agreed.”
“I know.”
“Then sit down.”
Another explosion sounded.
Smoke rose from the warehouse.
I looked at Rocco.
He sighed.
“I hate both of you.”
We went in.
Julian was tied to a chair.
Dante was fighting two men.
Bellandi stood on the catwalk above.
For the first time, I saw him.
Elegant.
Silver-haired.
Seventy perhaps.
He looked less like a gangster than a retired university professor.
That made him worse.
“Leonora Rossi,” he called.
Dante looked at me.
The expression on his face promised a future argument of historic proportions.
“Sorry,” I mouthed.
Bellandi smiled.
“You have your father’s disobedience.”
I stopped.
“What?”
Everything paused inside me.
“My father?”
Bellandi laughed softly.
“You think Carlo Rossi discovered gambling by accident?”
Cold moved through me.
Dante stepped toward Bellandi.
“Careful.”
But Bellandi was looking only at me.
“Your father worked for me.”
The warehouse disappeared.
“No.”
“He moved paintings.”
“You’re lying.”
“He authenticated them.”
“My father knew nothing about art.”
“Exactly. That made him useful.”
I understood.
Documents.
Signatures.
Shipping declarations.
My father had not merely accumulated gambling debt.
He had been involved.
Bellandi had owned him.
“Why sell me?”
“Because Carlo always sold whatever remained.”
I felt nothing.
That was almost worse than pain.
Dante saw my face.
“Leo. Look at me.”
I did.
“Not him.”
His voice anchored me.
Bellandi raised a pistol.
Rocco moved.
Gunfire erupted.
Dante reached Julian.
I dropped behind a crate.
Bellandi fled across the catwalk.
Police sirens approached.
Not corrupt officers.
Federal agents.
Because the ledger had already been delivered.
By Sofia.
Bellandi had been betrayed before negotiations even began.
Julian survived.
Two cracked ribs.
A concussion.
An entirely unreasonable amount of complaining.
At the hospital, he looked at me.
“I’m requesting hazard pay.”
“You own part of the gallery.”
“More hazard pay.”
“Fine.”
“And I never want to meet another Moretti.”
Dante stood behind me.
Julian sighed.
“Starting tomorrow.”
Bellandi escaped.
But his empire did not.
Within forty-eight hours, raids happened in New York, Rome, Geneva, Paris, and London.
Collectors panicked.
Politicians denied everything.
Museums opened investigations.
Stolen paintings emerged from private vaults.
The art world erupted.
And somewhere inside that chaos, I learned the truth about my father.
He had spent twelve years moving forged provenance documents for Bellandi.
His debts were not simply gambling.
They were payments.
Blackmail.
Failures.
He had sold me because Bellandi demanded proof of loyalty.
I cried once.
Then stopped.
Dante found me sitting on the kitchen floor at 2:00 a.m.
He sat beside me.
“I keep finding new ways he failed me.”
Dante said nothing.
“He was supposed to be my father.”
“I know.”
“Why wasn’t I enough?”
Dante turned toward me.
“No.”
“What?”
“That question is wrong.”
I looked at him.
“You were not the thing being measured.”
His voice was quiet.
“He was.”
Something inside me cracked.
I covered my face.
Dante pulled me against him.
No solutions.
No revenge.
No money.
Just presence.
Maybe that was love after all.
May you like
Not saving someone from every fire.
Sitting beside them afterward when everything smelled like smoke.
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