Dante Moretti had been twenty-nine years old when Alessandro Castellano destroyed him.
Not physically. Nothing so crude or honest. Alessandro was too sophisticated for that. He'd destroyed Dante the way rich men always destroyed their competition—with whispers in the right ears, information shared at the right moment, money moved at exactly the wrong time.
Sienna didn't know any of this yet.
They were having dinner at a small Italian place in the West Village, the kind of restaurant with checkered tablecloths and wine bottles covered in candle wax and a grandmother in the kitchen who treated every plate like it was going to her own family. Dante had suggested it after the gallery opening, needed somewhere quiet after the tension of running into Alessandro.
"You're thinking too hard," Sienna said, twirling pasta around her fork. "I can literally see the gears turning in your head."
