Page 67 of A Beautiful Crime

If my papa was fuming before he’s absolutely seething now. No one tells him what is his and what isn’t his. He’s a Don. He’s to be treated with respect. He holds all of the power.

And here Constantine is, not only disrespecting him, but also doing so in my name. A woman’s name.

It’s unheard of.

Papa’s eyes return to mine with more malice and fire. If it weren’t for Constantine besides me I know what would lie ahead of me. Fifteen lashes from brother dearest. My body stiffens.

“I’m assuming you barged into my office because you wanted a word,” my papa says stiffly. There’s so much anger inside him. I feel close to elation, and most relieved, that I will no longer be here to face his wrath.

How is it the devil is saving me?

“Si,” Constantine agrees coolly. “If you wish to see your daughter, if you wish to speak to her, the arrangements will have to be done through me.” Papa’s left eye twitches with fury. “You will never be alone with her under any circumstances.”

Papa’s lips thin as the vein on his forehead pulsates. “She’s my daughter. You have no right.”

Constantine places me in front of him, placing both of his hands firmly, yet protectively, on my hips. My back is flush to his front. And despite the layers of clothing between us and the wounds on my back, I feel the heat of him burning into my skin. His warmth seeps deep inside my bones unthawing the cold and soothing all the rigidness.

I feel his breath against my neck. I’m unable to control my body’s reaction. A shiver that races down my spine along with goosebumps spread across my flesh.

“I have every right. You heard me, Savio,” he says, his name laced with venom. I don’t think I can recall a time where anyone has addressed my papa by his first name. “Now,” Constantine buries his fingers in my hips as he presses me flush against his front. There’s no slither of space between us, not even for a pass of air.

I feel the hard plane of his muscles against me. And I feel the hard length of him against my ass. The blood rushing in my veins is like molten lava. Those damn unkillable flutters return with a vengeance. My body is pleading with me to press up against him. To feel what he has to offer. To divulge in the deadly sin, lust.

“I want you to thank your daughter for the great service she has done for your Famiglia,” he finishes and I can feel the smirk.

Papa’s eyes spark with violence and his eerily calm voice promises murder. “She is doing her duty.”

Truth be told I can not remember a time where papa’s eyes held love or at least tenderness towards me. Perhaps before, when I viewed the world in the lens he controlled, before my re-birth, I was too blind to see my papa’s true feelings.

But this, this is the man he has always been. Mamma was fooled, so naively so in Florence. This is papa’s true face. The City of Death has nothing to do with it.

Sometimes, even though it pains me, I’m glad she’s dead. She can’t see more of a monster her love has become. I just wish she wouldn’t have felt as helpless and alone.

My black heart bleeds for her.

The woman who fell in love with the wrong man.

I vow to never make the same mistake.

“Thank her, Savio,” there’s an edge in Constantine’s voice, one promising of a threat, “or I may go back on my word.”

Back on his word?

My body stiffens. His hand flexes against my hip before his thumb runs a soothing circular motion. I loathe how my body immediately starts to relax in his hold. My body may be brainwashed by him but my mind is surely not. Then ever so lowly I hear him say just for me, “Trust me.”

Trust.

If I could scoff I would.

As if trust can be given so easily.

Doesn’t he know the world we live in?

Trust is never given freely.

Trust is earned with blood. Trust is earned by committing sins. Trust is a crime disguised as good nature.

Trust is something women in this world don’t have the luxury of having.

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