Page 15 of Wicked Sinner
It would be a performance. Just like this entire evening is a performance.
I detest lies. I detest anything fake, and so much of this world is posturing. The life I lived before this was gritty and dangerous, but it wasreal.
Nothing about this feels real in the slightest.
"Caesar!" Konstantin's voice cuts through my thoughts, and I turn to see him approaching with a tall, elegant woman by his side. "I'd like you to meet Catherine. Her father knew yours—they did business together. She’s from South Carolina."
Isabella's smile falters slightly—the first genuine emotion I've seen from her all evening—but she recovers quickly. "Of course, I should let you two get acquainted. It was lovely talking with you, Caesar. I hope we'll have another chance soon."
She glides away gracefully, and I'm left facing Catherine Torrino. Where Isabella was blonde and bright, Catherine is dark and sophisticated. Her black hair is swept into an elegant chignon, and her wine-colored dress hugs her curves in all the right places. She's stunning, with the kind of classical beautythat belongs in Renaissance paintings. A little more full-figured than Isabella, but it suits her.
"Mr. Genovese," she says, extending her hand. Her voice carries just the hint of an accent—Italian tempered with a bit of Southern, though refined by years of expensive education. "I've heard so much about you."
"All good things, I hope," I reply, the words paining me with how canned they feel, and taking her hand to press a brief kiss to her knuckles. The gesture makes her eyes sparkle, and I can see Konstantin's approving nod in my peripheral vision.
"Your reputation precedes you," she says with an inviting smile. "Though I suspect most of what I've heard is exaggerated. People do love their stories."
“Stories can be exaggerated. And I haven’t been home in years. I’m sure it’s all fiction.”
"Indeed, they can. But they can also be illuminating, don't you think? Sometimes the stories people tell reveal more about the storyteller than the subject." She smiles, and I know that she knows she’s clever. She’s trying to draw me in with her intellect instead of only her beauty, and that does interest me. If I were going to agree to a farce of a marriage, I’d like for it to be someone who I could at least have a conversation with over the dinner table. I find myself genuinely curious about her, which is more than I can say for most of the women I've met tonight.
"Would you like to get some air?" I suggest, gesturing toward the French doors that lead to the terrace. "It's a beautiful night."
"I'd like that very much."
We make our way through the crowd, past clusters of Miami's criminal elite. I recognize faces from my father's old photographs—men who were young associates when I was a child, now aged into positions of power and influence. They nod respectfully as we pass, their eyes calculating as they take in my companion.
The terrace overlooks Biscayne Bay, and the moonlight turns the water into a sheet of silver. The sound of the party fades to a pleasant murmur behind us, replaced by the gentle lapping of waves against the seawall.
"It's beautiful," Catherine says, moving to stand beside me at the railing. "I've always loved the water. There's something peaceful about it."
"Peaceful isn't a word I'd associate with Miami," I say, watching as a yacht passes in the distance, its lights twinkling against the darkness.
"No, I suppose not. But there are moments, aren't there? Quiet moments when you can almost forget about all the… complications." She smiles. “Or maybe it’s less complicated in South Carolina.”
I glance at her, surprised by the wistfulness in her voice. "You sound like you speak from experience." I clear my throat. “I’m sure there are complications everywhere, given the lives our parents lead.”
“And those complications drove you away.” She says it flatly, not as a question. “And now you’ve come back.”
“My father died.” My guard goes up—I have no intention of divulging too much to this woman, no matter how interesting she might be.
“A prodigal son.” Catherine smiles. It’s not a fake, pretty smile, but a real one. “How has Miami treated you since you’ve come home?”
The question is more direct than I expected, and I find myself appreciating her boldness, despite my reluctance to open up. "With difficulty," I admit. "This world has changed in the twenty years I've been gone. The rules are different now."
“I suppose learning how to navigate those rules is part of this life. Power is always the thing that matters most. Who has it, who wants it, who can take it.”
“I’m surprised you notice so much.”
"My father has been navigating these waters for forty years. I've been watching and learning." She smiles, but there's steel beneath the sweetness. "I may have been born into privilege, but I wasn't born naive."
We talk for another thirty minutes, and I find myself genuinely engaged for the first time all evening. Catherine is intelligent, well-educated, and refreshingly honest about the realities of the world we inhabit. She doesn't pretend that marriage in our circles is about love or romance—she acknowledges it as the political alliance it is, but she does so without cynicism. She would be a good partner, I’m loath to admit. She wouldn’t ask more of me than I’m willing to give, and her mind could be useful.
If my marriage won’t be one of love or passion, one of mutual respect and companionship could be possible, I think. But even as I do, I feel something wrench within me, a sensation that just by thinking something like that, I’ve given up a little bit of myself.
I never really thought about marriage. But if I had, I would never have wanted it to be a compromise. A choice made with my head instead of my heart.
I’m not a man built for love, but I am one who follows my desires. My instincts. I’ve never crammed myself into a box that’s the wrong shape and size. And now I’m being forced to do exactly that, to talk myself into something that I have no desire to participate in.
