Page 7 of Corrupted Heart

I’m thinking of him.

The beast of a man with the gravel voice, the iron touch, and the absence of eyes.

The one who saved me and then melted right back into the darkness, like an apparition or a vengeful spirit.

Exhaling, I flop back across my bed and look up at the ceiling of the room I grew up in. I chew on my lip as my eyes slowly travel the walls of the room, taking in the posters, the achievements, the memories.

It’s funny how quickly “normal” feels like kid stuff.

For the last two years, I’ve had my own modest apartment on the Upper East Side. Money isn’t an issue, not when you’re from my family. But when I finally told my dad it was time for me to move out, I didn’t want to be just another mafia princess in a glass penthouse that Daddy paid for. I mean, yeah, he covers my rent—it’s not like ballet dancers earn much. And it’s also not like Vito Barone’s bank account would notice it even if I did live in some palatial penthouse or townhouse.

Still, I wanted to fit in a bit more with the majority of the girls I dance with. So, where I live is just a regular, average apartment. Okay, it’s got state-of-the-art security, and a doorman and guards who are on the Barone payroll, because my brothers are all psychotically overprotective of their “baby” sister, even though I’m twenty-one.

But that’s not where I’ve woken up this morning.

After what happened last night in Brooklyn, I came here, to my dad’s townhouse in Little Italy. There were pros and cons to showing up at Dad’s house in an Uber at midnight, covered in bloody scrapes and dirt, white-faced and freaking the hell out, but honestly, I was too scared to go home after what happened. Scared enough that I was willing to chance him still being up and having to explain the state of myself to him.

Mercifully, though, the house was asleep. And Roberto, the guard on duty at the front door last night, was distracted enough by the football scores on his phone that he seemed to buy my explanation that I’d tripped while out on a walk, and that I was fine.

Part of me wants to stay right here in my childhood bedroom and hide from the world all day. But then another, more adult instinct takes control of mine, and it’s one I can’t ignore.

The need for coffee.

I tie my hair up in it’s typical dancer’s bun, pull on a hoodie, and pad barefoot downstairs to the huge galley kitchen dad had remodeled a few years ago when he got really into cooking old-school Italian food.

Note I say into, not “good at”. But hey, it makes him happy.

I can hear his voice as I walk down the hall from the back staircase. As I get closer, I realize this is more of a homecoming than I was expecting.

“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in.”

Carmy, the middle of my three older brothers, grins as I shuffle into the kitchen and head directly to the coffee pot. He’s sitting at the breakfast table with my youngest older brother, Nico, along with our dad.

“You know, after you move out, especially when you insisted on it, it’s usually a bad look to move back in.”

I wait until the two gulps of black coffee have worked their magic before I turn to wrinkle my nose and give Nico a stink eye.

“I’m allowed to visit, dickhead.”

He grins. Dad gives him a lighthearted cuff upside the head. “She’s welcome back here anytime. You got that, Bumblebee? Any time.”

I grin at my favorite nickname of his for me.

“Why thank you, Father.”

Technically, Vito isn’t my father. At least not biologically. Nor is he Dante’s—my oldest brother, who’s currently leaning against the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee. I don’t really have any memories of our real dad, because I was only two when he and Mom died. But he was a close friend of Vito’s—he was his personal tailor, actually. And Dante grew up playing with Carmy and Nico as if they were cousins, or even brothers. Claudia, our older sister, did as well.

So when Mom and Dad passed, Vito immediately took us in as his own and raised us as three other kids in the Barone family.

Dante frowns as his gaze lands on the Band-Aids on both my knees, not to mention the bruises on other parts of my legs. The hoodie’s covering the bruises on my arms from last night. But it’s not like I knew I was crashing at my dad’s house when I left for work yesterday morning, and all I had here were sleep shorts.

“What the hell?” he growls with a mix of accusation and concern. That’s pretty much Dante in a nutshell. A little bossy, a little grumpy, and a lot overprotective. At least he’s mellowed a bit these days since marrying Tempest.

I shrug nonchalantly, trying not to tense when everyone else in the kitchen frowns and studies my bruises.

“Just work. A lift went sideways and I got banged up. It’s no big deal.”

Actually, it might be. I had a ton of missed calls and texts from Alicia when I got in last night. I didn’t feel like talking about what had happened—I’m not sure I could have talked about it last night, since I was shaking so hard. But after I cleaned up, I did send her a text that I was home and okay after running away from the two guys who attacked us.

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