The smile that breaks across his face is worth every moment of confusion and moral complexity this situation has created. And lying here with him warm and trusting in my arms, I realize I’m not confused about one thing at all.
Whatever happens between us, wherever this leads, Ginni is never going back to this basement of his family’s shame. Not if I have anything to say about it.
One way or another, I’m getting my menace somewhere safe.
Even if it means giving up everything I’ve built to do it.
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 sunlightcatches 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.
