Page 15 of Where Dark Hearts Devour
Savero shrugs like it’s nothing. “We’ll be having a simple buffet afterward at The Grand, followed by a toast to my father, then we’ll announce our engagement.”
“Perfect,” Papa replies, patting my arm.
Suits move around us quietly, preparing for the next part of the funeral: the burial. One of them is halfway past us when Savero thumps him on the back. Hearing my father’s instructions echoing in my ears, I dare not look away from Savero—but then something otherworldly draws my gaze to the right.
The “back” turns around, and the frigid air heats up.
“Fratello, meet my fiancée . . .”
It takes no more than a second for me to recognize the man. Then my breath leaves the building.
I’ve seen those Barolo-colored eyes before. They swim somewhere between the desire to remember and the need to forget, swaddled in blue lagoons and dark stares.My brain claws around for details until they fly at me thick and fast. Joe’sBar, the dark-eyed stranger whose gaze burned my skin and whose words probed at my story.
“... Trilby Castellano.” Savero’s voice sounds faraway, as if I’m traveling through a tunnel toward it.
I’m pretty sure my face has drained of color. Those full-bodied eyes betray no emotion as shame floods my veins. In this moment I can read his thoughts. He’s looking at a drunk. Someone undeserving of his family name. Of hisbrother.
He lifts his hand. “Miss Castellano,” he drawls. “It’s a pleasure.”
I blink. We’ve met before, but he’s chosen not to divulge that.
“This is Cristiano, my brother,” Savero says.
I slip my hand into Cristiano’s, and he wraps his fingers around it until his grip is firm and mainlining fire down my arm.
“Cristiano,” I say, weakly. “Pleased to meet you.”
Those deep, dark eyes watch me with indifference while blood rushes back to my cheeks. Seconds pass, and he doesn’t let go of my hand. His skin warms me like a faint memory, and the sensation of being caught in his arms makes my bones soft.
I try to pull away, but he holds my hand fast, a small smile curling one corner of his lips. Just as I sense Papa’s gaze zeroing in on the contact, Cristiano lets go.
My hand feels suddenly cold. I already miss the heat of his grip.
“Excuse me sir... “ A portly man with a bald head and searching eyes pushes his way towards us. “The service is about to start.”
Savero’s right eye ticks before he pans his gaze to the man. His jaw is like steel, his body alarmingly calm. Which is why what happens next makes my heart stop.
“What did I say about interrupting me, Franco?”
Instantly, the bald man flinches as though he’s been physically hit.
“Um, I’m sorry sir. I, um...”
Savero is unfazed by his blustering, and continues in a patronising tone. “And what don’t I like to do?"
Franco swallows, and because the church has fallen silent, I can hear the movement in his throat.
“Um, repeat yourself, sir.”
He takes a step backward and hits a pew. Raw fear fills his face.
In the blink of eye, Savero pulls something from his jacket pocket. My gaze catches on a flash of silver before a blade is driven into the side of Franco’s neck, then dragged down his chest to his sternum.
Franco’s eyes widen in shock. He’s alive, yet, he’s just been sliced open.
My breath stutters and I snap my lips together. I anchor my focus on Franco’s face because that’s the only visible part of him that isn’t pulsing out of his skin.
Someone hands Savero a crisp white handkerchief which he uses to wipe the blood off the blade before sliding it back into his jacket. I can feel the tension vibrating through Papa as we both hover like reluctant spectators.
