Page 11 of The Capo & the Curator
Swallowing hard, I force my wandering thoughts back to the present as we step through the arched entryway and into the villa's shadowed interior. The cavernous space is shrouded in perpetual twilight, the few slits of light filtering through the ivy-choked apertures barely enough to cut the gloom.
Dante doesn't hesitate, striding forward with the sort of easy confidence that seems innate to him. I trail behind him as we venture deeper into the villa's dimly lit interior, my footsteps echoing off the cavernous walls. In the next room, a parlor of some sort, we come across a series of faded frescoes etched into the stone walls.
"These look ancient," I murmur, tracing the outline of what appears to be a stylized compass rose. A series of numbers and symbols are woven through the design, their meaning lost to the ravages of time. "Do you recognize any of it?"
Dante shakes his head, his brow furrowed as he studies the fresco. "Not yet."
"Here, let me try..." Trailing off, I dig into my purse and retrieve a small makeup brush, carefully sweeping away the dust and grime caked into the fresco's crevices.
As the ancient artwork emerges in sharper relief, I notice something that makes me catch my breath. "Dante, look at this."
He steps up beside me, peering intently at the section I'm indicating. There, nestled amid the looping whorls, is what appears to be a rough map, complete with faint lines denoting boundaries and a series of X's marking undetermined locations.
"Son of a bitch," Dante mutters, something like grudging admiration coloring his tone. "Alright, let's see if we can't figure this thing out..."
For the next couple of hours, we lose ourselves in the work of meticulously documenting and cross-referencing each fresco, searching for patterns and hidden meanings. It's tedious, painstaking labor that would drive most people to the brink of madness.
But not me. Not us.
The villa's dusty interior seems to fade away as we huddle over the etchings, our heads bent together, voices murmuring in a constant stream of theories and ideas. At one point, I feel Dante's hand settle at the small of my back, the heat of his palm searing through the thin material of my shirt. My breath catches at the unexpected contact.
I risk a sidelong glance at him, only to find his gaze already locked onto mine, dark in the dim glow of a flashlight beam.
Slowly, a wicked half-grin curves his lips as he leans in closer, his voice a low rumble against my ear. "You know, you're sexy as hell when you’re focused like that."
A breathless laugh escapes me as I give his shoulder a light shove, trying and failing to ignore the way my pulse kicks up a notch at his proximity. "Get back to work, Casanova."
With an exaggerated sigh, he turns back to the frescoes. Swallowing hard, I tear my gaze away from the smirking object of my distraction and refocus on the etchings before me, searching for anything that could illuminate the map's meaning. That's when I notice a series of small markings along one edge, almost obscured entirely by a thick layer of grime.
Carefully brushing away the accumulated filth reveals an intricate pattern of symbols and numbers—different from those woven through the rest of the fresco but hauntingly familiar all the same.
"Dante..." I murmur, my voice hushed with a sense of dawning realization. "I think these markings match the ones in your grandfather's journal."
At my words, Dante crowds in closer, the hard plane of his chest brushing against my back as he leans over my shoulder for a better look.
My pulse kicks up a notch as realization dawns. "Do you think they're more coordinates?"
"Has to be." His free hand settles at my hip, fingers splaying in an unmistakable claim as he guides me back a step, allowing him to slip in front of me. "Look how these numerals line up, matching the longitude and latitude markers..."
Nodding, I lean in closer, but I can't resist darting a glance up at him through my lashes, finding his striking features etched in an expression of intense focus—those smoldering eyes narrowed, one corner of that full mouth quirked in concentration.
God, he's gorgeous.
"There." Recognition lights his gaze as comprehension slots into place like the final piece of the puzzle. "They lead to the old Castellani district—right where my grandfather's estate was located."
A breathless laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep in my chest as the weight of our discovery sinks in. We've cracked it—unearthed the next crucial clue in this bizarre scavenger hunt. The surge of euphoric triumph is utterly intoxicating.
The thrill of our discovery hangs between us, fueling the heated spark that's been steadily smoldering ever since we stepped into the dilapidated villa. Dante's gaze burns into mine with a searing intensity, the muscles in his jaw tightening as his grip tightens at my waist.
"Well," I murmur, "I'd say we make one hell of a team."
His eyes narrow at my words, a low rumble of approval vibrating in his chest as he drags me flush against the hard planes of his body.
"Is that so?" His thumb traces my jawline, tilting my chin up in a silent demand. "I seem to recall you needing a fair bit of persuasion to join this little venture."
"Well," I retort, allowing my lips to brush against the sharp stubble along his jaw in the barest whisper of a kiss, "you certainly know how to make a compelling argument."
The words have barely left my mouth before Dante's lips crash into mine with a bruising intensity. His kiss is pure, scorching possession—a fierce, hungry plundering. I melt into him with a breathless moan, fingers tangling in the silken strands at his nape as I meet his fervor with my own smoldering need.
