Page 85 of A Beautiful Crime

But even I know all it takes is one taste.

All it took Eve was one bite from the forbidden fruit.

Will my fate be the same?

We enter the dining room, a feast before us.

My mouth salivates at the sight as the aroma of the delicious food assaults my nostrils.

Constantine, appearing as a gentleman, guides me to my seat, pulls out my chair and tucks me in.

His touch lingers against my skin as he walks away from me to occupy his own seat. To my own surprise he doesn’t take the seat at the head of the table. I’ve never known a man who is in charge not to take the head of the table. Papa had always insisted his seat at the head and if anyone dared sat in it their own head would be upon the table.

With our seating arrangement, with Constantine sitting to my left, I am at the head of the table.

I don’t know how that makes me feel. I’d rather not dwell on it, but I do feel a sense of power. A sense of rightness in sitting here. Because in our world it isn’t just a seat. In our world it’s more.

And I have the most powerful man who has given that to me.

The thrill returns.

And god help me, it’s addicting.

Feeling alive in ways I’ve never imagined possible I don’t allow the guilt to register. Not tonight. Instead I bring my attention to the dish placed before me.

More emotions crash and tumble inside of me like a catastrophic wave.

Before me is a well known Italian dish in Florence. Bistecca alla Fiorentina.

Tears burn at the back of my eyes. My throat constricts as my chest feels overwhelmingly heavy.

The night my mamma committed suicide was the last time I had this dish.

It was her favorite. A Florence tradition to share the meal, one my papa loathed. Luca in turn shared his resentment with the tradition while Elio and I indulged her.

Maybe she knew then, while she was preparing the meal, that it was going to be her last. Maybe she wanted one last time for us to share as a family. A family we hadn’t been since we moved tothe city of New York. The City of Death. At that point papa was done pretending to be the family man he appeared to be in Italy.

Dante to her Beatrice he was no more.

My heart, the black and damaged organ, still aches for my mamma.

I hope her god forgives her for committing the ultimate sin.

In the dead of night, when the silence proves to be too loud, I wonder if my mamma with her Catholic beliefs forgives herself. I wonder if she believed so strongly why would she damn herself to Hell?

Her suicide in itself was out of character. It stood no bearings in her morals, her religion. But perhaps papa had finally broken her. Callously, he tore off her halo and destroyed her wings.

He had a hand in her death, even if he wasn’t the one who forced her to swallow the pills.

And now I feel as if I have a handful of pills trying to force themselves down my throat.

“I had Lucio prepare this meal because I thought it would please you,” I hear Constantine say in a surprisingly soft voice, “but if it offends you I can prepare something else entirely.”

My eyes finally tear themselves away from the dish and the memories to him. His gaze lies on my face expectantly, waiting for my command. But in his eyes I can see he’s trying to search for the answers. Constantine will always be a perceptive man. It’s how he’s acclaimed to such mass success.

It’s a terrifying thing, and yet freeing, to know I can never hide from him. To be seen.

“You cook?”

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