Page 77 of A Beautiful Crime

Seeing this change he states bluntly, “You don’t see me as a threat.”

Sensing he appreciates honesty I reply back, “No.”

Testing he takes a step towards me, and when he sees that I have no intentions of retreating he keeps his steps towards me until there is a healthy distance between us both.

Constantine Donati is known as The Devil of the East Coast, this man before me should be known as the Grim Reaper. A man who has no qualms with taking souls.

“As long as you don’t betray Constantine I will never be a threat to you.” He isn’t threatening me, not in his tone nor in his words. He’s merely stating a fact. Promising my death as easily as one promises a child a piece of candy.

Truth be told I have no intentions on becoming a threat to a man like Constantine. I do, however, have every intention of not being consumed by him. Which is proving to be more difficult with each moment we find with one another.

I wish I could kill my curiosity about him. My fascination and painful attraction. But the man is a magnet, I can’t help but be drawn to him.

And I loathe him and myself because of it.

“Where is he?” And I loathe myself even more for asking of him.

“Tending business,” Rico answers vaguely. I don’t expect him to give me the details of Constantine’s business affairs. It would be a conflict of interest. And after all, when is a woman an integral part of the business in the mafia? “He’s expected to return in time for dinner.”

I had almost forgotten about that. How he had ordered me to dinners with him for the remainder of my stay here.

And I’m expected to obey without question, without resolve.

Again, men confuse me for the wrong type of bitch.

And if I am the Queen he proclaims me to be I answer to no one, even thy King himself.

What was it that Constantine had said to me at Saint Peter’s Cemetery at mamma’s grave? A Queen demands respect. You can’t expect people to treat you like royalty when you pose as a doormat.

No truer words have ever been spoken. And I’ll see how true they are when I deny his order at dinner tonight.

Let’s see the respect I am given then.

“How are your wounds?” Rico asks and there’s not an ounce of care or worry in his tone nor his expression.

I raise a cool brow. Bravely I ask, “Do you even care?”

His face remains perfectly stoic. A blank canvas an artist would love to create. “No,” he responds flatly.

“Then why ask?”

“Because I’m told it’s polite,” he answers, which only sparks more questions.

“Are you capable of being polite?”

“I’m not capable of any human emotion, Carina. But when Constantine gives me an order to be polite to his future Queen I do my best portrayal of what I perceive politeness to be.” After my re-birth I had always thought that I was dead. My humanity was stripped from me, my innocent blood shed until I was dry, and I believed I wasn’t capable of feeling anymore. But that isn’t the truth. How can it be when Constantine, the man who forced me to become a pawn on papa and Luca’s chess boards, is making me feel little by little every time I’m with him. And even when he’s not near I still can’t help but think about him.

The man who had a hand in killing me is bringing me back to life.

And yet here’s a man who truly doesn’t feel. I see it to be true because it’s in his eyes. His mannerisms. The way he talks and the constant bored expression on his face.

Life seems dull to him. Everything does.

And for a moment, albeit a small one, a twinge of sorrow passes through me.

“I would prefer it if you didn’t pretend,” I tell him.

“Pretend,” he repeats in that same monotonous tone that I’ve adopted the past couple of months. Whereas this is natural to him.

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