Page 43 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

As I look at Antonio, there's a whisper in the chaos of my mind that wonders if we're not just doomed to repeat history, like some twisted version of "Groundhog Day." It's as if we're trapped in a never-ending dance, our bodies pressed together, skin against skin, even as we leap and twirl to the same tragic tune that consumed my parents.

Because Antonio, with his smoldering gaze and infuriating half-grin, just couldn't resist using our past, my trust, and my guilt against me. He stretched my feelings for him like a rubber band, pulling and pulling until they snapped, leaving me with nothing but a stinging pain and shattered memories.

And yet, even now, I can't ignore the heat that coils in my belly when he looks at me like that, the way my traitor heart skips a beat when his hand brushes against mine. The same heart that had SVT episodes, that betrayed me through cancer. Now betraying me again with Antonio.

Just call us the poster children for doomed relationships with a side of undeniable but deadly chemistry.

Franco opens the door without a sound, precise as always, like every movement is choreographed. He takes our empty risottoplates and sets down new ones with a dish I recognize instantly: Polpette alla Napoletana.

My heart doesn't just skip. It performs a dangerous grand jeté and crashes with no safety net. Ridiculous that meatballs could hit me like chemo drugs, but here we are. I'm staring at my plate like it contains answers instead of food, watching steam rise in spirals that remind me of how I used to spin until I couldn't tell where the dance ended and I began.

I can't look up at Antonio. Can't risk seeing his face. Is he remembering too? Or has he burned that memory along with everything else we used to be?

The kitchen that afternoon. Rain tapping against windows like impatient fingers on a barre. The scent of garlic and tomatoes thick as stage smoke. Our laughter—God, when was the last time we laughed?—echoing off tiles as we shaped meatballs with clumsy hands that kept finding excuses to touch.

Back then, every brush of his fingers sent electricity racing up my arm. I thought it meant something.

My father had left him behind that day. I never asked why, but Antonio's eyes told me everything—that tight, hard look he'd get after my father had finished with him. His mother wasn't home—maybe picking up flowers or visiting Naomi's father.

We'd collided in the kitchen, and he'd growled that he was hungry in that way that was more than just about food. Signora Martino supervised while we cooked, but when I accidentally dumped in too much hot pepper, the tension between us shattered. We'd laughed until we cried, tears streaming down our faces as we gasped for air between bites that burned our tongues.

I clear my throat, trying to silence memories that have no place here. There won't be any laughing until crying today. My fingers hover over my fork, hesitating.

"They have a kick, but not that much of a kick," he whispers, voice rough as stone against silk.

Damn my pulse for racing at that sound, my skin for heating under his gaze. Three months in isolation hasn't killed this stupid, dangerous hunger. My body apparently hasn't gotten the memo that he's the enemy.

"At least you didn't poison them," I bite out, then wince at my own words. Blade-sharp reminder of Henrik's poisoned knife. Not my doing, but still—

"I didn't."

"I'm pretty sure Signora Moretti thought we did with those meatballs back then," he rasps, and there's something in his voice that makes my stomach clench.

When I finally look up, I'm unprepared for the raw intensity burning in those midnight eyes. For one heartbeat, the air between us ignites, suspending us in a time before betrayal, before fire carved his face, before cancer carved mine.

I dig my fingernails into my palm until pain blooms. Not for grounding this time, but for punishment. How dare my heart still want what my mind knows is poison? He plotted my isolation, executed my imprisonment, burned every bridge I thought we'd built.

But there's too much at stake for this to be about us. The Greeks. The dinner. Naomi. I draw in a breath that feels like swallowing knives.

"Tell me three things we never want anyone to know about you," I tell him, lifting my chin like I'm about to face an audience after a terrible rehearsal.

"Three things only?" He pauses, eyes narrowing. "Why?"

"Because I don't trust you." The words taste like truth. Sharp and necessary. "And knowing those things may not change anything, but at least they might help me play pretend." I bite my lower lip, hating the vulnerability in my voice. "I'll share,too. If you're right and the brothers can sense lies, if like you've written in those files, they've honed those skills, then we need to have a non-verbal communication that doesn't scream hate and pain."

"Fine," he replies, and I brace myself for more lies. For a split second, his mask slips, and I glimpse something so raw it makes my chest ache. "That day in the kitchen. Your father had spent the morning before leaving training me. For a split second he almost looked pleased and then he said he wanted me to murder someone with my bare hands."

My lungs forget how to work. Antonio had just turned seventeen then. The week before, he'd watched me dance like I was creating something beautiful instead of just moving; he'd rescued Pavarotti from a high cabinet the cat couldn't get down from; he'd sat through a terrible romcom just because I was sad that Naomi was spiraling into depression after bullies at school had targeted her. And my father had forbidden me from seeing or speaking to her.

"Not someone," he continues, and the world narrows to just his voice, just those eyes that have seen too much. "He wanted me to kill Naomi."

My blood freezes, heart stuttering that dangerous rhythm that signals trouble. I'd been worried about the dinner, about keeping up appearances, about surviving this cage, but this is so much worse than I imagined. So much darker.

Chapter twenty-four

Antonio

"Naomi,"shewhispers,hereyes locked on mine. The word hangs between us, heavy with questions I don't want to fucking answer.

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