Page 7 of A Beautiful Crime

People think twice before opening their mouth to me. Hardly anyone approaches me, which is a blessing in disguise because I can’t stand to be around people anymore. Least of all the people papa and Luca parade me around.

I much prefer living in the shadows.

Perhaps papa and Luca didn’t count for that when they thrusted me in this life. It’s one thing to become darkness but wanting to live there?

That was unacceptable.

Blasphemy.

But I’ve become most comfortable with myself in the dark. Observing people through my new eyes and taking note of each of their strengths and most importantly their weaknesses.

Unlike my papa and Luca I don’t need to interact with people to know of their intentions.

I also have no desire to impress anyone.

You see, in this world, in this dark corrupt world it’s about being impressionable. If you impress the right person your life is spared. . .for now.

But I don’t worry about that ridiculous notion.

This is me, Carina Fiore, if you like me or not either way I could give a fuck less.

I am unapologetically me.

At least my rebirth has given me that. I no longer feel the need to please everyone.

But I have to keep up pretenses if I want to stay alive.

And that I do.

“You could at least smile, mia Carina,” my brother scolds me through terse lips. I spare a glance at him. His chocolate brown hair slicked back with gel and his face perfectly shaved to show his masculine features. His blue eyes are sharper than knives as they regard me with odium.

Whereas I have already proved myself in papa’s eyes I have yet to do so in his.

He continues scolding me discreetly, “You are supposed to look appealing not act as arepellent.”

I fight the maddening urge to roll my eyes but I mustn’t show disrespect. Especially the crowd in which we are given. If a mere woman shows disrespect to an Underboss, nonetheless, in public, it means he doesn’t know how to rule his men.

Honestly, I have no problem with showing such blatant disrespect to my brother, it’s the beatings that follow afterwards that I’m not fond of.

I still remember the lashings I received a few months ago. Right after I rebelled after my rebirth. The scars I bare on my back are not worn with pride but serve as a reminder not to be disrespectful once again.

On the warmer days, when the sun is blistering and the heat beats down on my skin I swear I can feel my back burning.

Five lashes.

I had to count each one given and if I didn’t I would receive two more for the one I forgot.

I didn’t forget.

Arching a cool brow at my brother I reply smartly, “Your bow tie is too tight, fratello. All of the blood seems to be rushing to your head.” I would snicker if I could but that would draw attention.

My brother’s face flusters further. The one thing my brother has failed that I have succeeded is not showing my anger or annoyance.

He touches his bow tie with his long lean fingers that have shed more blood than a butcher. Then he tightens it before smoothing his hands down the lapels of his tuxedo.

“Disrespect me again and you’ll earn yourself another lashing,” he threatens lowly.

“It was merely an observation. Why else would your skin be redder than the fresh tomatoes in our garden?” My play with words and my intelligence with flirting around the line of disrespect but never outright doing so pushes my brother’s supposedly nonexistent buttons. It gives me a certain thrill, almost a genuine smile to know that I get under his impenetrable skin.

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