Page 70 of A Beautiful Crime

This isn’t the woman who had the gall to lie to me. Nor is it the one to give me those sweet unspoken truths or fiery eyes after I’ve purposely provoked her.

No, this is the woman by product of them.

A woman who is biting her tongue and choosing silence rather than speaking her mind.

Being a pawn and not a Queen.

It’s infuriating.

Every interaction we’ve had with one another has shown nothing but progress for mia leonessa. She has slowly, but surely, been growing a spine. Not once has she been hesitant on using her sharp tongue or showing me her distaste. She’s even shown glimpses of pleasure, the attraction simmering between us that even she can’t deny. It’s there. It’s always been there. And with each time we spend together she blooms.

And now we are back to this.

Petals wilting.

Claws retracting.

Her fire diminishing.

I’m more than infuriated.

I’m disappointed.

Saddened.

She remains silent for the remainder of the car ride. Not even offering me the profile of her face. This distance she’s created is more than physical.

Doesn’t she know the pull between us is so strong that not even Heaven and Hell can keep us apart?

Why must she continue to fight it?

Why does she continue to fight herself?

She may be ignoring me but my mind has done nothing but obsess over her, even as Pietro pulls smoothly into my parking garage.

He opens the car door, checking surveillance, as usual. One can never be too careful. My late mamma had a saying, an ounce of prevention is better than a pound of cure. She never knew how much it bled in very well with my line of work.

Rapping his knuckles twice on the window I know the coast is clear. Before I open my door I glance back at her. She hasn’t moved an inch. And I wonder what’s going on in that beautiful self destructive mind of hers.

Buttoning my suit jacket I order Pietro, “Leave us.”

Pietro raises a brow. He then peers in the backseat to find Carina in the same stiff position she’s been this entire time. Feeling irrationally jealous I block his view by standing in front of the open door. “I don’t believe what they say about her, sir.”

I cock my head to the side, assessing him with frosted eyes. “And what do they say, Pietro?”

He swallows nervously. “That she’s an Ice Queen. I don’t believe it.”

Those damn fucking papers.

I have every right to pay a visit to the reporter, Niki Knox, and print her very own issue of the article with black, white and red.

Carina had stepped out into the spotlight for the first time and now she is known as the Ice Queen thanks to none other than little miss Niki Knox.

Perhaps I will pay her a visit.

No one talks about what’s mine and lives to see another day.

And the pathetic excuse for a woman couldn’t be more wrong. Carina isn’t made of ice. All she needs is someone to stoke the remnants of embers she has long forgotten.

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