Page 13 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

I sit down, inviting her onto my lap, and begin, "I'm Isabella. I love to dance, and your father... he plays the piano." I wonder mimicking someone playing on the piano. And she smiles, nodding. Why am I compelled to paint him in a softer light for her? To humanize him? To show her that he is—or at least was—more than just the Beast.

"He loved to play soccer, chase the waves, and once, he loved to laugh," I share mixing Italian and English, and Elena listens as if this is the most magical story she's ever heard. Hereyes wide with wonder, I lean down and kiss the top of her strawberries-and-hope smelling soft hair, just as the air in the room shifts.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up before I even see him. My body's warning system hasn't forgotten what my mind tries to ignore. A familiar cologne mingles with the scent of power and danger, and my pulse kicks up without permission. My fingers instinctively tighten around Elena. Not to keep her from him, but to anchor myself against the tide of unwanted reactions.

Antonio fills the doorway like some dark force of nature, shoulders blocking the light, those eyes that once mapped every inch of me now assessing the scene with calculated interest. His scar catches the sunlight, a stark reminder of flames and betrayal that should send me running, not wondering how the texture would feel beneath my fingertips.

Heat pools low in my belly, an involuntary response to the memory of his body against mine, inside mine. I hate how my breath catches, how my thighs press together of their own accord. Three months of isolation hasn't killed the muscle memory of what he made me feel that night – both the ecstasy and the shattering heartbreak that followed.

"Are you telling her a story?" His voice slides over my skin like warm honey laced with poison. The softer tone throws me more than any growl could have.

Elena looks up, uncertainty flickering in her eyes, but instead of the dismissal I expected, Antonio opens his arms. With a delighted giggle, she runs into his embrace, and he lifts her, spinning her around with a grace that seems at odds with the man I thought I knew. Watching them, a part of me aches, a hollow space expanding beneath my ribs where dreams of my own family once lived before cancer and captivity tried to kill them.

I can't help but wonder if he holds Paola like that too, if he whispers Italian endearments against her skin like he once did mine. The jealousy that flares is unwelcome and ridiculous. I shouldn't care who warms his bed. I shouldn't care if Elena calls another woman "mama." I shouldn't care about anything beyond escaping this place.

And yet I do. God help me, I do.

Cerberus ambles over, nudging my hand for a scratch behind his ears, finding comfort in my presence. "Seems the dog's taken a liking to you," he observes, his gaze sharpening. "Much like my daughter."

The words hang between us, both accusation and something more dangerous. His eyes track my every move like I'm a puzzle he's still trying to solve. Like he can't decide if I'm a threat or a treasure.

Words fail me, not from defiance this time, but from the sheer weight of them unspoken. Questions swarm my mind, urgent and numerous, yet they remain caged behind my lips. Around Elena, I can't unleash them. I want to confront him about the injustice of my confinement, to challenge the ease with which he discarded me once his interest waned. I'm desperate to understand the significance of that upcoming dinner, what role I'm expected to play in his grand design.

The urge to question if he was the one lurking outside my room last night is strong, too. Was it him standing there, breathing hard enough I could hear it through the door, his hand resting against the wood like he was contemplating coming in? And if it was, what did he want? To hurt me? To claim me again? To apologize? None of the options seem quite right.

Yet, I'm wary of giving him the impression that my time with Elena has softened me towards him. And to give him the impression I'll believe his lies again.

So I stay silent, not glancing away. Let him see the steel in my eyes, the walls I've built. Let him wonder what I'm thinking as I stand my ground, chin lifted in silent challenge.

His nostrils flare slightly, the only sign that my defiance affects him at all. The tension between us crackles like static electricity, something dangerous and alive. Elena, sensing it, presses closer to her father, her tiny hand patting his scarred cheek in a gesture so tender it makes my throat tighten.

In the solitude of my room, I've pieced together more than just idle thoughts. I'm convinced there's a deeper story to his mother's fate, a betrayal not by my doing. Letters that don't match timelines. References to places I've never been. If Antonio is so blinded by hatred that he can't see the inconsistencies, then his issues run deeper than any dinner plans could solve.

And maybe, just maybe, the real monsters in this story aren't just the Beast and me, but the shadows lurking behind us all, pulling strings neither of us can see, creating a twisted fairy tale where neither of us knows who's truly the villain and who's the victim. Where my father, his enemies, and all those shadowy figures in this dangerous game are playing with lives they consider expendable.

Where Elena might be the only true innocent left.

Chapter eight

Antonio

Thesoundofcelebrationechoes through the stone corridors. My men shouting "Hell, yeah" and toasting with glasses that probably cost more than most people make in a month. Triumph tastes bittersweet, but I'll take it.

We've finally cut off one of Moretti's key supply routes, and imagining that bastard's face when he realizes what we've done puts the first real smile on my face in weeks. My crew moves toward the dining hall, slapping each other on the back, voices rising with the kind of relief that only comes after walking away from a firefight without a scratch.

But this is just one battle. The war is far from over.

Tonight, I'll redistribute what we seized. Not just to line our coffers, but to keep the families in our territory fed. To fund the clinic that doesn't ask questions when bullet wounds need stitching. To ensure the local businesses that pay us for protection actually get what they pay for. My mother taught methat power without purpose is just violence with a prettier name. Something her killer could never understand.

"Next steps?" Franco's voice cuts through my thoughts as I stand by the fire, letting heat chase away the Mediterranean chill that seeps through these ancient walls. The flames cast shadows across the room, reminding me of everything fire has taken from me…and given me.

The strategic map has shifted since our wedding became a bloodbath. The Gigliotti family has been circling the periphery of our attention, quietly eliminating the Irish hold on Baltimore. Under Gambino, the Baltimore Crew controlled every shipment through that port. Now? They're ghosts. Whispers. But even whispers can grow loud if enough voices join in.

I could offer the Gigliottis an alliance. Or I could pit them against their rivals and watch them weaken each other while we strengthen our position. The chess pieces are all there—I just need to decide which move serves our long-term strategy best.

Greed makes men predictable. Fear makes them dangerous. I need to play both.

"Not yet," I mutter, glancing at the clock. The dining hall beckons. A chance to sit with my men, to be the leader they need rather than the Beast everyone fears. But my feet want to take me elsewhere. To the small ballroom where Elena's laughter rings like bells against stone walls. Where her tiny hands pull Isabella into dance after dance, twirling until both of them collapse in giggles.

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