Page 62 of Dante

Gina nods. She gets it. At least she’s beginning to.

“Your great-great-grandfather sounds like a great man. I hope to learn more about him tonight. How did this exhibition happen? Did the museum reach out to you, or did you give them the idea?”

“It was all Silvio’s doing,” I tell her. “He has ties to the museum director, Robert Smith. You’ll meet him this evening.”

Before Gina can ask any more of her eternal questions, I stand and nod. “Until tonight.”

CHAPTER 23

GINA

“You look lovely, Mrs. Ricci,” Ciro says as I come into the living room. “Mr. Ricci said he’ll wait for you in the car.”

“Oh. Thanks,” I say, taking a resigned deep breath as I take the elevator down to the lobby.

It’s busy as usual, but in that quiet, elegant way you find in luxury hotels where guests sit with a glass of Champagne as they wait to check in.

Thomas, my driver bodyguard, spots me exiting the hotel and is quick to open the rear door of the limo for me.

“Good evening,” I say to my husband. But he’s too busy scrolling his phone and answering messages than to give me an affectionate tap on my thigh.

As usual, there are no pleasantries about how I spent my day.

Not that I have anything to report.

Today was just another day in so-called paradise, lounging around the ten-million-dollar penthouse.

My only activity was chatting on the phone with Alice while I took Biscotti for a walk in Central Park.

Will this be the pattern for the rest of my life?

So far, I seem to be an accessory for Dante more than anything else.

I remind myself to take Angie’s advice and shrug off Dante’s cold behavior.

Instead I remind myself of all the good things about our marriage and my new life.

Like riding in this fancy limousine and my designer outfit.

Antoine even selected a black pillbox hat with netting like you see in the old movies. I love it. It makes me look sophisticated and mysterious.

Another thing to be grateful for is having a husband whose ancestor is being honored as one of New York’s founding dynasties.

A crime dynasty, but a dynasty nonetheless.

I should be content.

I’m living a life of affluence and luxury millions of women only experience in romance novels.

So far, the only things missing are a husband who can verbally communicate his affection, and the ability to put my artistic talent to work.

When I see Lorenzo and Luca tonight, I’ll ask if Dante’s made a decision about the restaurant yet. So far, he’s avoided speaking to me about it.

As we approach the vintage building that houses the museum, spotlights illuminate its 1880s Beaux-Arts facade. A giant billboard showcases Salvatore’s black-and-white portrait and the exhibition name: From Docks To Dynasty.

A red carpet has been rolled down the stone staircase to welcome guests. Photographers line both sides.

“Make sure you smile,” Dante says, nodding at the photographers.