Page 63 of Disarming Caine

The open walkway looked down over the foyer and grand living area, with its tall paintings and two-story windows overlooking the terraced gardens in the back. A ten-foot Christmas tree twinkled with red and gold decorations and hundreds of lights.

The churning escalated as we hit the top of the stairs and he took a left.

“We’re not going…”

He was taking me to the private gallery. To the scene of our breakup. The walls closed in on us as the walkway became a hallway.

“This is important, bella.” He stopped and brought my hand to his lips, a gentle but confident smile lighting his face. “There’s no going forward if the past is always in our way.”

Forward was what I wanted. But this was going to be hard, and I was far better at running from moments like that than facing them.

Antonio began walking again, backward, that warmI love youlook in his eyes. He was right—we had to go forward—so I walked with him, down the hall, to the last door.

Valentina’s words that night came back to me, ‘Dom says it’s for family only, but I have a feeling you’re close enough.’ It had startled me four months ago, but wouldn’t have surprised me now, given so many things Antonio had said and done since then.

The octagonal room was painted a rich burgundy, with heavy curtains to match, blocking out the light which could damage the amazing artwork in the room. In the center sat the circular white couch, which allowed you to sit and enjoy any of the carefully curated pieces the Ferraro family didn’t share with the outside world.

Antonio walked me directly to where I’d instinctively known he would.

The Chagall. Vibrant blue background and a vase of red and yellow flowers, two floating heads in the top left, and the table with its bowl of fruit and violin.

Les amoureux dans le ciel.

Antonio’s hand tightened as we stood in front of it, silent for a moment. He took the present from me and placed it on the couch so he could take both of my hands.

“The last time we were here…” His voice shook and he exhaled slowly. “My heart shattered. The apologies were easy to make because I knew I was a fool. I risked the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“We don’t have to do this.”

“We do.” He swallowed hard and stared at me for a long moment. Once he spoke again, the shake was gone. “I want to apologize once more for what I did. I want to close the door on that piece of our past and move forward with as few obstacles as possible.”

“I forgave you months ago, Antonio.”

“I know, but…” His eyes drifted to the floor, then up to the painting. “I asked Papa to sell it.”

“No!” Every muscle in my body tightened, and his gaze snapped back to me. I may have been louder than called for. “Do you have any idea what this painting means to me?”

“I would have assumed pain and betrayal, but your reaction makes me think not.” Of course he didn’t know, because I’d never told him.

God, I sucked at honesty.

“When I was ten, my mother took me to visit Bobby Scott. She was delivering some sort of paperwork to him, and I waited patiently in the living room for them to finish.” I released one of Antonio’s hands and turned to faceLes amoureux. “This was hanging in that room all those years ago, and it captured my imagination.”

“This was the painting that sparked your love of art?”

“It was.” I took a step closer, my free hand gravitating toward it. “Can I touch it?”

“This is not a museum.”

I ran my fingers over the brush strokes of the sky, traced the faces floating in the corner. “After we left, my mom bought me a book about Chagall and that was the first step that decided the rest of my life. At least…” My hand dropped. That path ended a long time ago.

“The life you were planning until your mother’s death?” he whispered.

Pins and needles pricked at my fingers, and my heart searched for a slower rhythm. “Yeah.”

He stepped behind me and wrapped his strong arms around my waist, kissing the side of my head. “This painting tore us apart.”

“No.” I turned around in his embrace, looking up into his soft eyes, the gallery lights playing against their flecks. “This painting—at least, the fake—brought us together. And as much as I hate to say it…”

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