Page 115 of A Beautiful Crime

I wink at her. “You wouldn’t have me if I wasn’t.”

“No,” she agrees, “I wouldn’t.”

Offering my injured hand she takes it with care. I lead us through the penthouse, up to the third floor where both of our rooms reside.

Instead of us going our separate ways we stand outside the door that leads to my bedroom.

I told her months ago I would never force her. And I have stayed true to my word. I’ve never influenced her nor made her not have a choice.

She has never seen the inside of my room. Never stepped a foot inside of it.

And now she will. Of free will.

“Your room,” she breathes.

I turn my head to catch a glimpse of her. Her ebony hair mused perfectly from my fingers. Those rosebud lips taunting me for another taste. The face of an angel with the body of a vixen. And she captured the heart of a Devil.

“Our room,” I correct her.

“You know,” she begins, her free hand on the handle of the door, “I gained respect for you that night.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

She raises a brow. “Why not?”

“Because any man doing the bare minimum of respecting a woman shouldn’t warrant the respect of a woman.”

“I’ve never met a man like you before.”

“Because all your life you’ve been surrounded by boys, Carina. Not men.” Aside from Gino, who had only been in her life for the past decade and Giuseppe, who was the butler turned father figure, Carina hasn’t had great men in her life. By no means are we good men but we are respectable. My mamma would haunt me in my grave if I wasn’t.

“Says the same man who said he would take pleasure in hurting a woman if she was a traitor.” She challenges me.

I shrug my shoulder. “A traitor is a traitor, mia leonessa. Would be misogynistic if I turned a blind eye because the traitor is a woman.”

Her lips twitch despite herself. Before, her battle with morality would have had her believing it was wrong, that I was evil. Now her world isn’t as black and white.

Twisting the door handle she pushes the door open and takes her first step inside our bedroom with me following her lead right behind her.

She crosses the threshold with measured steps. Her eyes take note of every detail in the room.

The four poster California king size bed centers the room, sitting on a platform. Charcoal painted walls with landscape photos my mamma had taken when her hobby became her heart. Those pieces are the only thing I have left of her. And at times, where the loss of her is too much to bear, I stare at her photography and remember her the way she’d want me to, happy.

I have millions of dollars of artwork framed throughout the home but none of them are worth one of hers.

Mesmerized by the photos she lets go of my hand and goes to stand in front of my favorite one; the lighthouse.

Waves from the ocean strong and tumbling. A black sky with ominous clouds, catastrophic winds and rain crashingdown. A lone strike of lightning slashing across the lighthouse illuminating the photograph.

I wait anxiously for her response. If she finds the photograph haunting or destructive. Perhaps she finds it both.

Or does she see what I see when I look at it?

The power of the storm. The strength of the lighthouse. The beauty in the darkness.

Her voice comes out soft with awe, “It’s beautiful.”

My heart thunders.

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