Page 113 of My Dark Ever After
I knew if I had the courage to show her all the parts of me that I did not love, she would find some way to love them too.
What kind of magic was that?
The kind that drove Dante to write about Beatrice all his life.
The kind that prompted Emperor Justinian to make Theodora an empress at his side.
Even though I was not the type of man to warrant a happily ever after, I thought that, with her at my side, we could fight together to win one.
Starting with what I had planned today.
I was uncharacteristically nervous as I waited for Guinevere to join me, my fingers itching to check the messages on my phone once again to make sure everything was in place, though I knew it already was.
A week of planning and very, very deep pockets could get you anywhere.
“Sorry it took me so long.” Guinevere’s lilting Italian floated down the curved staircase toward me.
When I glanced up, what breath was locked in my lungs evaporated at the sight of her.
She looked ethereal, Proserpina descending into the dark underworld to meet her dark groom. The gauzy white gown clung to her like condensation, a narrow panel over each breast that revealed acres of pale-gold skin to her navel, where another panel wrapped around her slim waist before giving way to a loose skirt that skimmed her legs all the way to the floor. With her long, heavy tresses brushed into gleaming waves and the heavy, square gold earrings I’d given her at her ears, she seemed every inch a Roman goddess.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you speechless,” she mused with a feminine smile as she finished climbing down the stairs and stopped in front of me. “Do I pass muster?”
“Sei uno spettacolo,” I admitted. “Mi togli il fiato.”
You are utterly beautiful. You take my breath away.
Guinevere blushed, pink heat streaking her cheeks and chest. I reached out with my thumb to trace the warmth over one side of her face.
“Thank you,” she said simply. “You said to dress for something special, but the Day of the Dead celebration is tomorrow, right?”
“Si, tonight is just for the two of us.”
She cocked her head slightly but nodded, taking my offered arm so I could lead her out the doors to the car that waited for us. Her laughter was bright when she caught sight of the Ferrari NART Spyder.
“If you let my dad drive this, he might actually start liking you,” she teased as I opened the door for her.
I waited until she was ensconced in the car to smile, remembering my conversation with John Stone from the day before.
“Can I talk to you for a moment?” I had asked as I stopped beside the chair John was occupying while he watched Guinevere and her mother play in the pool with some of Carlotta’s and Stacci’s sons.
His lips thinned. “If you feel you must.”
I bit back the edge of my smile and sat in the chair across from him, bracing my forearms on my thighs so I could lean closer. He eyed me suspiciously, rightly guessing that I was settling in for a serious conversation.
“You aren’t marrying her, Romano,” he said, startling me with his perceptiveness.
The smile I gave him was wolfish. “She wants to be with me, Stone. Forever.”
“And you don’t doubt that?” He scoffed. “She’s a twenty-three-year-old girl who has been sheltered most of her life. She’s blinded by your handsomeness and intrigue, but she doesn’t truly know what she is getting into bed with, and when she does, she’ll be gone quicker than you can act.”
“Do not contradict how Guinevere has spoken of you and be condescending now,” I said blandly. “I believe you were with me two days ago when we broke into your family’scastelloand found they had tortured Guinevere. You saw she shot a man to save herself. Maybe you do not know about the man she pushed from a bell tower to save our friend Ludo, andmaybe you have not seen how her curious, brilliant mind has seized on the intricacies of legal and illegal business dealings, but I have seen it all. I was once skeptical like you were, and it was a mistake I will not make again, not when she has told me repeatedly she does not see me as a monster, even when I do monstrous things. No one knows better than Guinevere what she wants, and I trust her enough to know she wants me.”
“Pretty speech,” John muttered, rubbing a hand over his downturned mouth. “You speak English very well, if formally.”
“I went to Oxford,” I supplied, just to watch him sigh.
I was not the thug he wanted me to be, the villain he could paint for his daughter, a beast who turned to violence because he was uneducated and brutish.
