Page 37 of From Italy With Love

I blinked, surprised. “How do you know it’s a woman?”

“Because I’m not stupid. Come to the opening. I want to meet her.”

“Luciano.”

“I’m serious, Sal. Bring her.”

I looked at Madigan, who was still watching me with those winter eyes. “Okay. We’ll be there.”

“Good. Opening’s at eight. Don’t be late.”

He hung up, and I set the phone down.

“What was that about?” she asked.

“My brother. He’s having an art opening tomorrow night. He wants us to come.”

“Us?”

“Yeah. He wants to meet you.”

She looked nervous. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Probably not,” I admitted. “But I want you to meet him. Want you to see that part of my life.”

She was quiet for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. If you want me to go, I’ll go.”

I crossed to the bed and kissed her. “Thank you.”

The gallery was in Chelsea, a converted warehouse with high ceilings and white walls. By the time we arrived, fashionably late, around nine, the place was packed with people in expensive clothes drinking expensive wine and pretending to understand art. I kept Madigan close, my hand on the small of her back, guiding her through the crowd. She was wearing a black dress I had bought her that afternoon. Simple but elegant, showing off her curves in a way that made me want to take her back to the hotel immediately. But I promised Luciano that we would come. And I wanted her to see this. I wanted her to see that my family wasn’t just violence and crime, that there was beauty too, creativity, something beyond the blood.

I found Luciano near the back of the gallery, talking to a couple in their fifties. He saw us approaching and excused himself, crossing to meet us.

“Sal,” he said, pulling me into a brief hug. Then he turned to Madigan, and I saw him take her in. The way she stood close to me, the way my hand rested possessively on her back, the way she looked at me.

“Luciano Valentinetti,” he smiled, extending his hand.

“Madigan Kelley,” she replied warmly. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Luc blinked, then looked at me, but said nothing as he turned to look back at Madigan.

“Likewise. Sal has told me absolutely nothing about you.”

She blushed, and I shot Luciano a look.

He just grinned. “Come on. Let me show you both around.”

We followed him through the gallery as he explained each piece. The inspiration, the technique, the meaning behind it. Madigan listened intently, asking questions, genuinely interested, and I could see Luciano warming to her. The opening wound down around eleven, people gradually filtering out until it was just us and a few stragglers. Luciano shooed out the last guests and locked the door, then turned to us.

“Want a private tour?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said.

We walked through the gallery again, just the three of us this time, as Luciano talked more freely now about his process, his struggles, the pieces that meant the most to him. Madigan was fascinated, asking questions, engaging with him in a way that made my chest ache.

This was what she should have had. The freedom to explore, to learn, to be curious about the world. Not locked away in her father’s house, controlled and monitored and treated like property. We stopped in front of a large canvas near the back, abstract, all dark reds and blacks, violent and beautiful at the same time.

“This one’s called Legacy,” Luciano said quietly. “It’s about our father. About the weight of what he built, what he expected from us. The blood it took to create it.”