Chapter 83

Chapter 83
The gallery is a stage built for ghosts: white walls, every surface a stark negation of the city’s grime and color. The floor, poured concrete, amplifies the echo of every step, and the scent in the air is equal parts turpentine and chilled mineral water. Cameras cluster in the corners, their red eyes the only hint that anyone cares what happens after midnight. The paintings themselves are all violence—broad swathes of black and red, abstractions that promise more chaos than sense.

Bell stands dead center in the main hall, every inch of her chosen to blend with the art and the threat. Her dress is black, simple in cut, and just loose enough to hide the swelling at her waist. Heels sharpen her posture, a subtle fuck you to anyone expecting fragility. At her side, Dante is immaculately tailored and restless, eyes flicking from shadow to shadow, counting exits, cataloguing threats.

They are, as always, alone together.

Luca arrives five minutes late, which is right on time for effect. He breezes in through the loading dock, all laughter and open arms, instantly charming the gallery owner—a thin, anxious man with the look of a defrocked priest—into a tour of the locked vault. By the time Luca loops back around to the main space, he’s secured the blueprints, an inventory of hidden cameras, and at least three potential escape routes. He winks at Bell, his smile carrying both apology and warning.

The waiting is an agony of patience, but Bell’s stillness is perfect. She lets her gaze roam the art, lets her mind run permutations of the meeting ahead. Catalina Vasquez is the brains of the enemy operation—a woman rumored to have engineered three coups in two years, all while keeping her family’s hands clean. Catalina is also the kind of predator who respects only the blade she can see coming. Bell plans to show her two.

Catalina enters flanked by two guards: one beefy, one snake-thin, both wearing suits that strain at the seams. She moves with a fluidity that belies her age, her silver hair pulled into a twist so tight it could serve as a garrote. Her dress is scarlet, tailored within an inch of her life, and she surveys the space with a glance that marks territory as efficiently as any animal.

“Ms. Romano,” Catalina says, inclining her head. “I must confess, I expected something less… public.”

Bell shrugs, letting the silence stretch. “Nothing is private anymore,” she says. “Not in this city. At least here, nobody can wire the walls without us knowing.”

A flash of teeth, more predator than smile. “You’re learning.”

“I learn fast,” Bell says.

Catalina gestures to the central bench, as if they’re about to sit for tea. Bell claims the spot first, folding her hands in her lap, forcing the older woman to adjust. Dante hovers behind her, a statue of threat. Luca stands a few feet off, eyes fixed on the guards, arms loose at his sides.

The opening moves are all ritual: polite threats, compliments that cut. Catalina probes at Bell’s age, her inexperience, the rumors that swirl about her legitimacy. Bell parries with facts—shipping manifests, banking records, a litany of Vasquez mistakes that cut deeper than any insult.

Finally, Bell moves the game forward. “Let’s stop pretending,” she says. “We both know you’ve been running a proxy crew through the docks. You’re pushing Bianchi product in our containers. And you’re three weeks away from getting caught, unless we decide to help you.”

Catalina’s lips twitch. “Bold. But you miscalculate. The Bianchis are rats, yes, but they pay on time.”

“They pay in blood, too. And when the Feds turn up, you’ll be the first name on the ledger. Not Bianchi. Not us. You.” Bell leans in, dropping her voice. “I’m offering you a way out.”

The room goes colder. Catalina’s guards stiffen. Dante’s hands flex at his sides, but he stays silent, letting Bell hold the floor.

Catalina studies her. There is calculation in every millimeter of her face—the lines at her eyes, the faint tic at the jaw. “What do you want?”

“Peace,” Bell says, though the word is a lie. “And a partner who knows when to cut her losses.”

Catalina’s laughter is soft, almost genuine. “You’re too young for this city, Ms. Romano.”

Bell doesn’t blink. “Maybe. But I’m not the one who just lost a million in product to a Customs dog at the canal.”

A pause, then: “You did your homework.”

“I always do.” Bell glances at the painting over Catalina’s shoulder—a spatter of crimson on white, like a crime scene after a long rain. “You want the details, or shall I list your other problems?”

Dante’s voice breaks the tension, low and steel-edged. “The terms, Bell.”

Bell turns to Catalina. “You cede the southside pipeline. In return, we help you clean the record and make the Customs issue disappear. We’ll even cut you in on the new port—ten percent, no questions. But you stay off our docks.”

Catalina’s gaze narrows. “Twenty percent.”

Bell laughs, a true sound. “Fifteen, and you keep your tongue.”

There is a long, exquisite silence. In it, the cameras blink, the guards sweat, and somewhere in the gallery a hidden speaker hums with the static of a world just waiting to pounce.

Catalina nods, just once. “Fifteen.”

Bell offers her hand, and the older woman takes it, grip strong as a vise. For a moment, they lock eyes—two predators, one war. Then Catalina signals her guards, and they melt away, their tension already translating into new orders, new plans.

As she leaves, Catalina throws one last glance over her shoulder. “Don’t mistake mercy for weakness, Ms. Romano.”

Bell smiles, cold and perfect. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

When the Vasquez party is gone, the gallery seems to exhale. Dante steps forward, puts a hand on Bell’s shoulder. His touch is warm, almost reverent. “You did good,” he says, voice softer than she’s ever heard it.

Luca bounds over, a grin breaking the tension. “That was fucking brilliant, bella,” he murmurs in her ear, not caring that the echo will carry through the empty hall. “You’re better at this than any of us.”

Bell lets herself lean into their warmth, for just a moment. Then she straightens, checks the phone in her clutch, and starts planning the next move. There is always a next move.

But for tonight, the gallery is theirs.