Page 1 of Where Dark Hearts Devour
Cristiano
I shift on my chair and sink backward into the shadows, where I’m most comfortable. Joe’s Bar is the only establishment in this part of the city not under my family’s rule, and as I observe my surroundings with detached curiosity, I’m impressed at how the fabric of this place has transformed in just a few hours.
Since I arrived at five p.m., I’ve seen every type of patron, from workers having a quick beer and young women on a bachelorette party, right through to shady Casanovas out for a slow scotch and a quick lay. And now the sky outside is black and those allergic to daylight have come out of the cracks in the street, it feels like I’m in a different place altogether.
Loud whispers fill dark corners; thick fingers graze bare skin. Deceit and debauchery taste too sweet in the air. As for the dress code, it appears anything goes, as long as you can turn a blind eye to bad behavior.
I came here to prolong the inevitable. As soon as word gets out that I’m back in New York, the days will no longer be my own. The whole city has its eyes on the Di Santos, and just because I left ten years ago doesn’t mean I’m exempt from the view. If anything, the changing dynamics of our family and my role in it are sure to make our advisors giddy with the suggestion of returning blood. And that won’t please my brotherat all.
My eyes drift to the clock. It’s getting close to midnight.
I pick up the glass of water I haven’t touched for several hours and bring the rim to my lips. Glancing across the room one more time, I tip it back and swallow the lot. Only a few heads turn my way as I stand. My height and build make me a little conspicuous, but the tailored suit and black shirt cover up any clue as to who I am.
I’m almost at the exit when a door to my left bursts open and something small and fluttery collides with my ribs. A young woman stares up at me, her large eyes wide with shock, and short, nervous breaths escape her full lips. Her hands are pressed against my torso to steady herself, and I don’t miss the way her fingertips curl into my shirt when our eyes meet.
She swallows with some effort. Then she looks down, realizes she’s still touching me, and withdraws her hands quickly. Her cheeks are flushed pink when she glances back up.
“I ... I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going. Did I, um ... Did I hurt you?”
Her words are stuttered and slightly slurred, but hervoice. She sounds like she just tanked a full pack of Marlboro Reds. I almost laugh, but she’s being serious, so I bite my cheek before I reply.
“No, you didn’t hurt me. DidI hurtyou?”
She blinks long, dark lashes at me. The movement is lazy and languid, which tells me she’s had a few too many drinks. I take in her taut, unblemished skin and delicate build—she can’tbe more than eighteen, surely. Too young and too fragile to be drinking alcohol in backstreet bars.
“Um . . . no.”
“That’s good.”
The sound of grinding bone vibrates around us, and it takes me a few seconds to notice I’m cracking my knuckles.
“You came at me with some speed.”
She wrings her hands together. “I’m really sorry.”
Something dark and more Di Santo than I’d like to admit crosses my mind. “Can I see your ID?”
Just like that, the blood drains from her face. “Excuse me?”
“Your ID,” I repeat. “Can I see it?”
Any sober person would question my right to ask, but I’m pretty sure this little one isn’t sober at all.
“W-why?”
It’s a good question. WhydoI want to see her ID?
At first I just wanted to see her reaction, and I’ve seen that now, along with everything but the stone-cold evidence she’s underage. But I realize even though this is merely a fleeting visit and I’m not here to find a woman I can walk away from in the morning without so much as a backward glance, I want more than just a reaction from this girl. I want hername.
“Because I need to know whose secret I’m keeping.”
She blinks again, then her wide eyes soften, and she breathes out a resigned sigh. She reaches into a straw basket hanging over her arm and pulls out a driver’s license. I instantly spot the telltale signs of a counterfeit.
The photo is genuine and doesn’t do her justice. But it’s the wording below it I’m interested in.
Trilby Castellano.
A faint thread of recognition winds its way through my mind. There are a thousand Castellanos in this city, but not Trilbys, and I’m sure I’ve heard that name before.
