Page 48 of Where Dark Hearts Devour
But for the first time since I lost Mama, I’m feeling it less. In the past few weeks I’ve found myself seeking change. I’ve consciously and unconsciously rebelled against the norm; the “what has to be.” It doesn’t take a genius to know who and whatI’m running from. I never wanted to marry Savero, and I still can’t reconcile myself with that vision of the future. But, what’s harder to confront is what Idowant.
Neither of us speak for the next few minutes, amplifying the sound of brushstrokes against canvas. One question sits on the tip of my tongue and makes my throat itch. I take a deep breath before asking.
“How long do you think you’ll stay?”
He pushes a hand through his hair and then rubs it down his face. It’s a slow, simple movement, but it’s a reaction I can read into—a step away from the cool, still exterior he usually displays. My heartbeat quickens.
“I don’t know,” he replies, his tone weary.
I hold my breath. “Will you stay for the wedding?”
This man is the king of long-drawn-out pauses. He watches each brushstroke until even my hand feels self-conscious. I try my hardest to focus on the painting and not on the weight of his response.
“Of course. I’m going to be Sav’s best man.” He wraps a hand around the back of his neck and kneads it lightly. Then, almost as an afterthought, he adds, “But then I have to get back to work.”
I roll back my shoulders. Although his response makes my stomach hollow, we’re on safer ground now. It doesn’t feel any less dangerous though.
“At the casinos?”
His shoulders relax. “Yeah.”
I swallow and pretend to focus on the view I’m trying my hardest to replicate.
It’s for the best that he isn’t going to stick around. If I’m finding his presence challenge enoughbeforeI marry his brother, what will it be like when I’m his sister-in-law? I realize, with dreaded clarity, I don’t want Cristiano to leave, and thatalone is a clear sign he should. Hopefully, his visits will be few and far between. I have to limit my contact with this man. The survival of my family depends on it.
“Where are they?” I peek sideways at him. “Vegas, the gambling capital of the world?”
A sigh escapes his lips. “Mostly, yes. I do have interests in Atlantic City and also Chicago, but the main money is in Vegas.”
“Wow,” I breathe. “I’ve never been there, but I’d love to go one day.”
“You like gambling?”
I try to conceal the horror in my features, because gambling is right up there with my views on violence. “No, but I love Elvis.”
“You’re an Elvis Presley fan?”
I glance sideways, and he’s smirking. “More importantly,” I say with a frown, “whoisn’tan Elvis Presley fan?”
He attempts to grimace, but nothing is going to make that face of his appear unpleasant. “I can think of at least one person.”
I flick my hair back with a huff. “Well, that one person is a heathen.”
When he doesn’t throw a quick retort back my way, I look across at him, with my brush midair.
His expression is devious. “If that one person ever heard you call him a heathen, he might throw you over his shoulder and spank your ass to Memphis and back.”
My cheeksflood, and I have to look away before I pass out. Cristiano chuckles darkly. I have no idea if he’s joking around or being serious.
I paint in silence for the next few minutes, feeling his gaze flicking between the landscape and my painting.
“You’re talented, aren’t you?” he says eventually.
I laugh nervously. “Not really, but I enjoy it.”
I can see him frown out of the corner of my eye. “For fuck’s sake, Castellano, I just gave you a compliment. Own it.”
His scolding smacks of impatience, which irks me. I train my eyes on the canvas, afraid to look into his eyes.
