Chapter 27
Chapter twenty-seven
Ginni
The afternoon light from the projector bathes us in golden warmth, a perfect recreation of a Tuscan sunset that makes everything look like a painting come to life.
Jazz music drifts through the room, something smooth and sophisticated that Carlo chose from my collection.
Miles Davis, I think, though I’m too absorbed in my work to pay proper attention to the melody.
Putting the finishing touches on what might be the most important painting I’ve ever created, might just be the very best way to spend an afternoon.
Carlo is reclining against the pillows, completely relaxed, one arm behind his head in a pose that shows off the elegant line of his torso and the play of light across his olive skin.
He’s been incredibly patient, holding the position for over an hour without complaint, occasionally shifting when I tell him it’s safe to move.
“Tell me about the first time you noticed I wasn’t just your best friend’s annoying little brother, that I was an adult.
” I say softly, adding a highlight to capture the way the artificial sunlight catches on his collarbone.
“Really noticed me, not just family dinner politeness. I know the first moment you wanted me was when I was making hot chocolate, but there must have been a shift before then, when you realized I was a person.”
Carlo’s mouth curves into a small smile, the exact expression I’ve been trying to capture on canvas. “You were seventeen, I think. At Christmas dinner. You were wearing this burgundy velvet jacket that was completely inappropriate for a family meal but somehow looked perfect on you.”
“I remember that jacket,” I laugh, my brush moving with practiced precision. “Papa hated it. Said I looked like a Victorian courtesan.”
“You looked beautiful,” Carlo says simply. “But it wasn’t the jacket that caught my attention. It was the way you argued with your uncle about art restoration techniques. You knew more about fourteenth-century fresco methods than a man with three degrees in art history.”
The memory makes me warm all over. I’d been so nervous that night, desperate to make an impression, terrified of saying something wrong and embarrassing myself in front of Carlo. To know that he was actually listening, that he was impressed rather than annoyed is far beyond my wildest dreams.
“You asked me about my studies afterward,” I continue, mixing a slightly darker shade for the shadows beneath his jaw. “No one ever asked about my studies. They usually just tried to change the subject when I started talking about art.”
“Because they were idiots,” Carlo says with casual certainty. “Anyone with half a brain could see how passionate you were about it. How much you knew.”
“I went to bed that night thinking you might actually like me,” I admit, then immediately flush at how pathetic that sounds. “Not romantically, obviously. But as a person. Someone worth talking to.”
“I did like you. I always liked you, Ginni. Even when you were being an insufferable know-it-all about art techniques.”
I pause in my painting, looking at him over the canvas. “Really?”
“Really. You were this brilliant, beautiful boy who lit up whenever someone showed genuine interest in the things you cared about. How could I not like you?”
The validation makes my chest tight with emotion. All those years of feeling invisible, of believing I was too much for people to tolerate, and Carlo had actually enjoyed my company. Had seen worth in the things that made my family roll their eyes and change the subject.
“I wish I’d known,” I say softly, returning to the painting. “I spent so much time feeling sad about how everyone only put up with me out of obligation.”
“Not me. Never me.”
The simple honesty in his voice makes me want to put down my brush and kiss him senseless, but I’m so close to finishing this piece. Just a few more details and it will be perfect, a visual record of this moment when everything feels possible between us.
“What about you?” Carlo asks. “When did you first think of me as more than just Marco’s friend?”
“Honestly? When I was sixteen. You came to Sunday dinner wearing this gray suit that made your eyes look like dark chocolate, and when you smiled at something Mama said, I literally forgot how to breathe.” I mix a warmer tone for his skin, trying to capture that golden quality the light gives him.
“I spent the entire meal inventing reasons to ask you questions just so you’d look at me. ”
“I remember that dinner. You asked me about fifteen different things. I thought you were just being friendly.”
“I was being desperately infatuated,” I correct with a laugh. “Though I’m pretty sure everyone else just thought I was being my usual overly talkative self.”
“You were perfect,” Carlo says, and the warmth in his voice makes my hand shake slightly as I add the final touches to his mouth. “Curious and engaged and so alive. You made that boring family dinner actually interesting.”
We fall into comfortable silence, the kind of easy companionship that feels like we’ve been together for years instead of days.
The music swells around us, romantic and perfect, and I can see perfectly how this is our real life.
This isn’t a fantasy, we’re married, and this is a taste of our future, living in our beautiful home, spending lazy afternoons creating together.
I’m adding the last few brushstrokes when Carlo’s phone rings.
The sound cuts through our peaceful bubble like a knife through silk. I freeze, brush halfway to the canvas, my heart immediately starting to race. Carlo’s expression shifts from relaxed contentment to sharp alertness in an instant.
Calls are for emergencies only.
I hurry over to the dresser where I keep Carlo’s phone. The caller ID makes my blood turn to ice water.
Dario Ajello.
Carlo’s boss. The heir to one of the most powerful crime families in London. The kind of man who doesn’t call for social chats, who expects immediate answers when he reaches out. If Carlo doesn’t answer, Dario will think something has happened to him...
Images flash through my mind with horrifying clarity. Armed men attacking the Russians, rival families, whoever they decide to pin Carlo’s disappearance on. A war between crime empires, blood spilled because of my selfish desires. People dying because I couldn’t bear to let Carlo go.
Dazedly, I realize I’ve drifted over to Carlo. Subconsciously seeking safety. My port in any storm. The one person in the world who always makes everything better.
Numbly, I hold up the phone so he can see the screen. Our eyes meet across the small distance between us, and I can see the same understanding reflected back at me. This is it. This is how it ends.
“Ginni,” Carlo says softly, his voice carefully controlled. “I need to answer this.”
My carefully constructed paradise is about to come crashing down, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Carlo will answer the phone, and within hours this beautiful dream will be over.
But I can’t let innocent people die because of my choices. Whatever the cost to my own happiness, I can’t be responsible for starting a war.
With my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter, I answer and put the call on speaker.
“Everything alright, Boss?” Carlo says, his voice steady and professional despite the circumstances.
“Yes,” Dario’s familiar voice fills the room, warm and casual. “Just calling to let you know dinner’s been canceled tonight.”
My chest tightens with desperate fear. I checked Carlo’s schedule obsessively before bringing him here.
There was no dinner planned with Dario tonight.
This is a test, a way for his boss to check on him without arousing suspicion if someone is listening.
A simple code that tells Carlo to confirm his safety or signal for help.
Some pre-arranged phrase or word that no one else knows.
Silent tears start streaming down my face as I stare at Carlo. This is it. Within hours, men will be breaking down the door. My beautiful, impossible love story will end in violence and blood, just like everything else in our world.
I don’t know why I’m so upset. I always knew it could end this way.
Either something like this, or my parents returning from holiday.
Our time here in my basement love nest was always limited.
There was always a chance it would be over before I managed to get Carlo to see sense and realize we are perfect for each other.
But all the logic in the world can’t heal a breaking heart. And mine is breaking. I can feel it. Tearing in half. Destroying itself. I had one chance for love. One chance for happiness, and I’ve lost it.
Carlo will never be mine now, and my family are going to put me away in an institution. My life is over. My hope is crushed. I have nothing. Nothing and no one. And now I never will.
Carlo stares back at me, his dark eyes unreadable. I can see him thinking, calculating, making the choice that will determine both our futures. His lips part slightly, and I brace myself for the words that will destroy everything.
He licks his lips and sighs, a sound that seems to come from somewhere deep in his chest.
“Tell Molly he owes me a tiramisu,” Carlo says.
The casual fondness in his voice freezes my mind completely. His tone was warm, relaxed and at ease. It clearly was the code for saying everything is fine.
It is so utterly and completely different from what I was bracing for, that for a long moment I can’t even begin to process it. There are no thoughts in my head. Only static.
Dario chuckles on the other end of the line. “You’ve just won me a hundred pounds. Molly and Dante both bet you’d been kidnapped and weren’t really taking time off. I told them you were probably just lying on a beach somewhere eating too much and forgetting the rest of us existed.”
“Smart money,” Carlo laughs, and the sound is so natural, so perfectly him that I can barely believe this is happening. “Sorry to disappoint them, but I’m exactly where I want to be.”
“Good for you. Enjoy your break, you’ve earned it. See you when you get back.”
The line goes dead, leaving us in silence that seems to ring with possibility.
I stare at Carlo, hardly daring to breathe. He had a chance to leave, to end this, to return to his normal life. Dario was right there, ready to send help, ready to rescue him from his obviously deranged captor.
And he chose me.
The tears flowing down my face now are pure joy, overwhelming relief mixed with love so intense it feels like it might actually kill me.
Without thinking, I launch myself across the space between us, landing on the bed with enough force to make the mattress bounce.
Paint-covered hands and all, I grab Carlo’s face and kiss him with everything I have.
He’s startled for just a moment, probably not expecting to suddenly have an emotional, paint-covered artist launching themselves at him.
But then his arms come around me, and he’s kissing me back with equal intensity, his mouth moving against mine like he’s trying to pour years of unspoken feelings into this single moment.
“You stayed,” I whisper against his lips between kisses. “You could have left, but you stayed.”
“I stayed,” he agrees, his voice rough with emotion.
I’m probably getting paint all over both of us, but I don’t care. Nothing matters except this moment, this choice, this handsome man who just gave up his freedom to keep me safe. Who looked into the face of escape and chose love instead.
When we finally break apart, both of us breathing hard, I can see paint smudged across his cheek and probably in his hair. He looks thoroughly debauched and absolutely perfect.
“The painting,” I say suddenly, remembering my abandoned artwork.
“Can wait,” Carlo says firmly, pulling me back down for another kiss. “We have more important things to do.”
And as his hands tangle in my hair and his mouth claims mine again, I think that he’s absolutely right. The painting captured a moment, but this... this is creating a future.
A future where Carlo Benedetti chose love over logic, where he picked his personal menace over his autonomy, where two people found something worth fighting for in each other’s arms.
I couldn’t have painted anything more perfect than this.