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“Bellissima, I’d stop time for you. I’d give you the moon and the stars; I’d learn to defy gravity. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do, nobody I wouldn’t kill, if you asked me to. If you needed me to. Saving you from a fire would be nothing, purely instinct.”
She stared at him for three beats, not budging, before her body relaxed and she gave in. It wasn’t as if it was a hard decision for her—as much as Corrado would do for her, they both knew she would never deny him anything. Whatever he needed, come hell or high water, Celia would be there every step of the way.
Their hands linked together, Corrado took her upstairs to the bedroom. He shut the door behind them, locking out the cruel world that would tomorrow tear them apart, but today—tonight—it would just be her and him.
* * *
Hours later, Corrado descended the stairs and made his way to the dark kitchen. He turned off the stove and dumped the scorched sauce down the garbage disposal before rinsing out the pot. He scrubbed it for a minute but when it refused to come clean, he tossed the entire thing in the trashcan.
He headed back upstairs and showered, standing under the spray of hot water until it started to grow cold. He shaved then, using a thin razor blade under the bright lights of the quiet bathroom to remove the stubble along his sharp jaw. Afterward, he slicked back his thick hair before dressing in his most expensive black Brioni suit. With his Rolex affixed to his wrist and his Italian leather shoes on his feet, he wandered into the bedroom and gazed at his wife under the moonlight.
Celia snored lightly, snuggled up to his pillow. Corrado leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Sleep well, bellissima.”
He made his way back downstairs, using his cell phone to call for a car service to pick him up. It only took the town car a few minutes to arrive, and another few minutes for them to make it through the city. He tipped the driver handily when they arrived and he climbed out, waiting for it to leave before he started to move.
He strolled into Metropolitan Correctional Center shortly before three o’clock in the morning, his head held high and a swagger in his step. He may have been there to surrender himself to a bright orange jumpsuit and confinement in a rat hole, but he saw no reason why he couldn’t at least do it in style.
30
Grip firmly, everybody, and use deep strokes. Up, down, up, down.”
Strangled laughter echoed through the small art room. It sounded like someone was choking on air.
“Experiment with light and hard touches. Play around with it. Find out what feels good to you.”
Kelsey leaned over, elbowing Haven as she whispered, “Do you think she does that on purpose?”
Haven’s brow furrowed. “Does what?”
“That’s it. Keep it up, guys. This is exactly what I like to see—your creativity exploding onto the canvas as I help you reach your peak.”
Kelsey coughed loudly, trying to hide another laugh, but others in the class were less successful at containing themselves. The professor didn’t notice, though, or if she did, she didn’t react.
“Art’s personal. It’s just you and your tools, making something out of nothing. It’s a sensual process. You’re creating love.”
“Yeah, definitely on purpose,” Kelsey said. “Miss Michaels is freaky-deaky.”
Haven felt the blood rush to her cheeks when she realized what the fuss was about. She dropped her paintbrush and stared at the random shapes and patterns on her canvas, everything suddenly looking sexualized.
“Beautiful work, Hayden. Absolutely stunning.”
Haven smiled softly, her blush deepening as the professor stopped beside her station. “Thank you.”
“It’s truly my pleasure.”
The rest of the class passed in a similar fashion, more immature snickering accompanying possible sexual innuendos. By the time they were dismissed twenty minutes later, Haven was flustered and about to jump out of her own skin.
She grabbed her things before bolting toward the exit, hoping to delay the inevitable awkward conversation with her friend, and made her way to the lobby from the seventh floor. Rushing out of the massive brick building, she collided with a form right outside the front doors. Haven bounced back from the force of it.
Monday was turning out not to be her day.
“I’m sorry,” she said at once, pulling away from the guy in front of her. He seemed startled, his feet locked in place and eyes wide. They were a strange blue color, bordering on steel gray. His skin was dark tan.
“No big deal,” he replied, letting go of her. His voice was high-pitched, a thick Brooklyn accent she heard often around New York. “You okay?”
“Uh, yeah,” she said, taking a step back. “I’m fine. This happens all the time.”
“What does?” he asked. “You running into strangers?”
