His innocent wife is a dangerous hacker.-Chapter 622 Painting

Bella flopped back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling.

Where was he?

She’d been waiting. Dressed like this. Feeling brave and sexy and ready. And he just... hadn’t come.

The lingerie felt silly now. She tugged at the lace, second-guessing everything.

But then stubbornness kicked in.

No. She’d gotten ready for a reason. She wasn’t going to waste this.

She slipped off the bed and padded quietly to the door. The hallway was empty, dimly lit, exactly as it always was at this hour. No servants. No guards.

She bit her lip, heart pounding, and walked toward his study.

The door was closed. Light spilled from underneath.

She knocked softly. No answer.

She turned the handle and pushed it open and froze.

Leo was on the floor.

Sitting against the wall, legs stretched out, head tilted back. His shirt was wrinkled, top buttons undone. And in his hand—a bottle. Whiskey, by the look of it. Half empty.

He didn’t look happy.

He looked... lost.

"Leo?" Her voice came out small, worried.

He didn’t respond at first. Just stared at nothing.

She stepped closer, her bare feet silent on the floor. "Leo?"

His head turned slowly. Those gray eyes found her, and for a moment, they were unfocused, hazy from the alcohol. The corners of his eyes were red—not from crying, but from the kind of exhaustion that went bone deep.

He looked at her through his lashes and then his eyes widened.

The haze cleared slightly as he took her in. The pink lace. The way it hugged her curves. The way her brown hair fell softly around her shoulders. The way she stood there, worried and beautiful and completely unaware of how she looked.

"Leo, why are you drinking?" She knelt beside him, one hand reaching for his face. "What happened?"

He caught her wrist gently. Not hard. Just stopping her.

"Leave it, Bella." His voice was rough and tired. "Just... leave it."

She didn’t move. Her eyes searched his face, looking for answers he wasn’t giving.

"Tell me," she whispered. "Please."

He looked away. Took another long drink from the bottle. Set it down.

Then, without looking at her, he reached behind him and pulled something forward.

A canvas.

He turned it toward her.

It was a painting. A flower—light pink and white, slightly clumsy, imperfect in a hundred ways. But there was something earnest about it.

"I wanted to give you something beautiful," he said quietly. "Something I made. For you." He gestured at the room—the scattered paints, the ruined canvases, the mess of failed attempts. "I’m not good at it. I tried. For hours. This was the best I could do."

Bella stared at the painting. At the flower. At the man who had clearly struggled for hours to create something for her.

Her eyes burned.

"Leo..."

"I heard you on the phone," he continued, still not looking at her. "You’re talking with someone. She’s painting something for you. Something beautiful. Something that makes you happy." His jaw tightened. "I wanted to do that too. Be the reason you smile like that." A pause. "But I can’t even paint a f*cking flower."

Bella’s hand covered her mouth.

He finally looked at her. His eyes were red-rimmed, vulnerable in a way she rarely saw.

"I’m sorry," he whispered. "For being cold. For shutting you out. For making you feel alone." He swallowed hard. "I don’t know how to do this—love, feelings, all of it. But I’m trying, Bella. I’m trying so hard."

She crawled into his lap.

Wrapped her arms around his neck. Buried her face in his shoulder.

"It’s perfect," she whispered against his skin. "The painting. It’s perfect."

"It’s terrible."

"It’s perfect because you made it. For me." She pulled back just enough to look at him. "I don’t need a masterpiece, Leo. I need you. Just you."

He stared at her, something breaking and healing in his eyes at the same time.

Then his hand came up, fingers brushing the lace at her shoulder.

"You wore this," he murmured. "For me."

She nodded, cheeks flushing. "I wanted to tease you. Make you smile."

His thumb traced the edge of the fabric. "I’m smiling now."

"You’re not."

"Inside." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "I’m smiling inside."

Bella laughed softly, tears still clinging to her lashes.

Then his hand slid to the back of her neck, pulling her gently closer.

"Bella," he breathed against her lips.

"Yes?"

"I’m sorry it took me so long to show it right."

She kissed him. Softly and sweetly. Full of everything words couldn’t say.

The painting sat nearby, imperfect and beautiful.

Just like them.

She pulled back, a giggle escaping her lips—bright and warm and utterly disbelieving.

"So you’re drinking," she said, her eyes sparkling with amusement, "because you couldn’t paint a flower?"

Leo’s jaw tightened. He looked away, a flush creeping up his neck. "Of course I’m drinking. I’ve been working for hours. Hours, Bella. And it kept going wrong." He gestured vaguely at the scattered canvases, the smears of paint on the floor, the general chaos of his failed artistic attempts. "It pissed me off. I needed something to cool down."

Bella looked at him—at this powerful, dangerous, intimidating Mafia man sitting on the floor, surrounded by art supplies, pouting like a frustrated child because his flower painting wasn’t perfect.

She burst out laughing. The kind of laugh she couldn’t stop if she tried, the kind that bent her forward and made tears spring to her eyes.

"It’s not funny," Leo muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

"It’s so funny," Bella wheezed, clutching his shoulders for support. "You, Leonardo Moretti, got so mad at a painting that you needed whiskey to recover."

"Whiskey helps."

"Whiskey helps with what? Your artistic frustration?"

"Yes." He said it so seriously, so matter-of-factly, that she laughed harder.

Bella finally caught her breath, still grinning. She lifted her hands and cupped his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. His stubble was rough against her skin.

"You," she said softly, looking into those storm-gray eyes, "are so cute."

Leo’s brow furrowed. "I’m not cute."

"You’re the cutest."

"I’ve killed people."

"Doesn’t make you less cute." She leaned in and kissed the tip of his nose. Once. Twice. Three times, just because she could.

He sat there, letting her, his expression a mix of exasperation and reluctant pleasure.