Page 94 of A Beautiful Crime

Constantine sighs heavily. I would expect a father to have the same reaction with his over eager child. “We’ll see.”

Pietro smiles triumphantly. He even winks at me which earns him a lethal stare from Constantine. And that glare, which I’m sure has intimidated even the best of men, doesn’t faze Pietro.

He comes up on the other side of me, cups his hand around his mouth and says directly to me as if we’re trading secrets, “He really knows how to kill the fun, doesn’t he?”

“I heard that, Pietro,” Constantine says from the opposite side of me. He then releases my hand to anchor his arm around my waist. His hand lays firmly on the flare of my hip. He pulls me closer to him, putting space between Pietro and I. “And do not come that close to my fiancé again.”

Pietro takes a healthy step away from me with both hands up in a sign of surrender. It’s the second time I’ve seen him do this with Constantine. I’m sure it won’t be the last.

“I’m right, aren’t I, Carina?” His tone is playful.

However, Constantine’s is not. “Pietro,” he says his name in warning.

Pietro chuckles before he sobers. “Si, Constantine. I understand.” He falls behind us as Constantine takes the lead. And as I look back at him he mouths to me, I’m right. I push my lips inward to hide the smile that wants to break free.

“I fear you work with a child,” I say to Constantine.

He smirks down at me. “Yes, but he’s our child.” There’s affection there. I see it so clearly in his eyes. It’s such a drastic difference between my papa and his soldiers, and Luca with his. There is no affection in The Fiore Famiglia. Only fear and loyalty.

The Fiore Famiglia could learn many things from The Donati Famiglia.

“Any reason why we are about to enter a nightclub in the heart of Queens during this hour of the morning?” If he’s about to respond, trust me, I might just take my Louis Vuitton pumps and stab him with it.

“We are here to conduct business with a client of ours.” I notice how he says that word again. Ours. I’ve never seen a man of his stature to share. Least of all with a woman. Made Men never hold their women as equals, only trophies. And yet this man, the man everyone claims to be the Devil, is treating me as his equal.

The girl in me who was raised under her papa does not understand it. The woman in me now desperately wants to.

“Ours?”

“Yes, mia leonessa, ours.” He brings my hand up to his lips and kisses the scarred skin.

Flustered, I clear my throat. “And who are we conducting business with?”

“Marquise,” he answers as we enter through the nightclub at the secured back door. As it’s morning the club doesn’t have the same appearance as it would at opening.

Performance lights of red and blue are traded for white. Workers are carrying rags and boxes instead of trays and drinks. It’s like seeing Oz behind the curtain. Still, the beauty and the allure of the nightclub is there. The glamorous chandeliers that shine without light. The plush ivory booths and crystal glass tables. This isn’t just a nightclub. This is luxury. “He runs thedrugs for us in Queens and Brooklynn. Operates right beneath your feet.”

My brows furrow. “He runs his operation so close to his place of business?”

“No better place than right under their nose. Ain’t that right, Don Donati.” A smooth voice with more charm than a voice has a right to says from across the club.

My head turns to the sound and my eyes find more than a pleasing sight.

He walks across the club with swagger. A rhythm that no man can replicate. He’s hypnotic. The confidence he exudes alluring in its own right.

Dressed in a three piece emerald green suit that was made for him, donning two thin bright gold chains and a watch that would make a weak man’s arm heavy he stops before us with a bright smile.

And while dashes of silver are spread across his facial hair he doesn’t look a day over forty. Genetics have certainly blessed him.

“My, my,” he sings as his eyes rake over me. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

I feel Constantine tuck me closer to him. His hand is now possessive on the flare of my hip.

And it’s wrong, sinful, I know, but the possessiveness in Constantine affects me in a way that would have feminists screaming in horror.

“Marquise,” Constantine addresses him with warmth in his tone. “Allow me to introduce my fiancé, Carina.” Will my heart ever not miss a beat when he says my name?

“Carina Fiore? Daughter of Don Savio Fiore? I wouldn’t know such a beautiful creature to come from such a hideous man.”

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