The gallery smelled like home, old paint, varnish, and the faint mustiness of centuries-old canvas. Elena breathed it in deeply, trying to let the familiar scent calm her racing heart. But even here, in the place she loved most, she couldn't escape him.
Franco and Giuseppe stood like silent shadows near the entrance, their dark suits and cold eyes marking them clearly as Dante's men. Everyone who walked past stared. Whispered. Elena felt their curiosity like insects crawling on her skin.
This is my life now, she thought bitterly. A prisoner even in my sanctuary.
She hadn't seen Dante since last night. Since he'd walked out of his office after calling her his property. The word still burned in her chest like acid.
Property.
Not his woman. Not his lover. Just another possession he owned
