Page 11 of A Beautiful Crime

There’s an unfamiliar rhythm to my heartbeat. The dead muscular organ brings itself back to life with a startling pace.

“Ah, si, Constantine,” my brother quickly agrees. “But mia cara sorella does not appreciate champagne.” The lie flows easily from his lips. I enjoy all alcohol, especially the ones that burn. For those are the ones that remind me I’m alive.

Constantine cocks his head to the side, detecting if my brother is telling the truth or a lie. And from the smirk that graces his lips I think he has chosen the latter.

He then pins his gaze on me. His eyes do a sweep of my body, lingering on the flare of my hips and the narrowness of my waist before meeting my own.

Then boldly he takes a step closer. The air between us magnetizes with something between a deep hatred and a mutual attraction.

It is clear in those intoxicatingly dark eyes of his that he likes what he sees, but the way they darken to coal when they meet mine holds something much more sinister.

I stand tall before him, squaring my shoulders and not looking away from his eyes.

I am not a woman who cowers.

“Per favore, forgive my younger sister,” Luca apologizes on my behalf but Constantine doesn’t spare him a glance. He keeps those whisky eyes on mine. “She’s usually much more well-mannered. This is-”

“Carina Fiore.” The way he says my name, the sound of it on his tongue, velvety with a deep caress meant to pull me in the dark depths of the unknown, has arisen goosebumps on my flesh.

“As you can see, Constantine my sister-”

Then he does spare my brother a glance. His eyes cut him with a sharpness and coldness that is unnerving. “Signore,” he corrects him. “We are not close enough to be on a first name basis and even if we were my rank above yours means you will speak to me with the respect I am owed. Capisce?”

Luca’s jaw tightens as his cheeks turn red.

I refrain from widening my eyes.

I have never heard anyone speak to my brother in that manner other than papa. And even then papa isn’t as severe. Papa may be emotionless but he isn’t as cut and dry.

He’ll at least have the mercy to deceive you.

“Capisce,” he responds through tight lips and gives a small nod.

“Carina,” he says my name again and I hate how my body comes alive. There’s a flutter in my stomach that I can’t quite identify but I immediately want to kill it. Purge it from existence.

He extends his large roughened hand that has furrows of dark hair on his knuckles and even more so on the exposed olive skin of his wrist. “Dance with me.”

I notice right away how he doesn’t ask me.

Constantine Donati isn’t a man who asks for anything.

You’ll obey his every command.

And my instincts, the one that sits like lead in my gut, are telling me not to take his hand. My head is screaming at me to run while I can. Run far away, from this life, but most importantly from him. Because once he has me I have this sick feeling that he’ll never let me go.

Haven’t all women been warned never to dance with the Devil?

This evening I have to do my part.

My life depends on it.

I nod my head and take his outstretched hand. His fingers curl around mine with a gentleness that I wasn’t expecting.

As he leads me to the center of the dance floor I can’t help but feel as if I am walking to the edge of the plank. One wrong move with him and he’ll send me to my death.

With a nod of his head to the conductor the swell of music from the orchestra begins. I recognize the piece, Chopin - Nocturnes, Op. 48: No. 1 in C minor.

A melancholy piece, one too depressing to dance to.

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