Page 67 of Where Dark Hearts Devour
I press the phone to my ear and take another long drag of the cigarette.
Someone picks up on the other end. “Allegra Castellano.”
“Allegra,” I say, feeling a small sense of relief. “It’s Cristiano. Would you like to see the bride-to-be?”
An hour later, the voices of five semi-drunk women are grating against my temples. Thiswasa good idea, I remind myself. The alternative would be a lot worse.
Annoyingly, I’ve opted for Savero’s recommendation to avoid small talk by inviting over the entire female contingent of Castellano’s family. I’m not avoiding small talk exactly, but the solution is the same. I need tonotbe alone with her. Not in the wake of that gown fitting.
Bridal gowns are meant to be virginal, for crying out loud, not the clothing equivalent of a slow, decadent fuck laced with ravenous bite marks and quiet gasps of desperation.
Cazzo. Cazzo. Cazzo.
Hidden by a velvet curtain, I turn to face the wall and bang my forehead against it repeatedly.
“I have your water here.”
I turn to see the seamstress holding out a glass, her eyes averted.
“I may have given them a little too much champagne,” she says apologetically.
“It’s fine,” I say, taking a sip. “I suppose she’ll only get married once.”
The thought sticks in my throat, and I suddenly want to hurl the glass at the wall. Instead I smile and place it on a side table, away from any inclination to vandalize this innocent woman’s property.
I walk with a great deal of reluctance into their gathering. “How are we doing, ladies?”
They all look up, their cheeks pink and their faces shiny from all the laughing. I absently wonder what it must be like to get along with a sibling to the extent one could have a good laugh with them. My relationship with Sav has never been like that. Even when we were kids, he was intense. Too intense to joke about with.
I’ve never understood why he was always so competitive. Papa gave me a lot of attention, but I figured that was because Sav was the eldest—the one who’d inherit it all. He was the heir; I was the spare.
But so many of Sav’s actions smacked of jealousy. There was the time he set fire to my toy cars, torching them until they were steel nubs, and the time he threw Father’s favorite Rolex into the ocean because he’d let me wear it to church one Sunday. It was always explained away as “passion.” I was calm and measured. Sav was “passionate.” I never understood how that was supposed to be a positive thing. It never felt positive to me.
Allegra scrambles to her feet despite my urges to the contrary.
“Thank you so much for inviting us, Mr. Di Santo. It’s just nice for us girls to spend some time together before the wedding.”
“Do you like her dress?” The next eldest sister, Serafina, looks up at me expectantly.
“Yes.” My voice feels tight. “It’s beautiful.”
“Do you think Savero will like it?” The youngest sister blurts this out, and the other one elbows her in the ribs.
I can’t honestly answer that, because I have no idea what Sav likes and doesn’t like. He certainly doesn’t advertise it. So I give a noncommittal—and truthful—answer.
“He wouldn’t be human if he didn’t.”
The younger sister blushes and bats her eyes away, and for some inexplicable reason I feel protective of her, as if she’s my own sibling. At the feel of something warming the side of my face, I turn to see Castellano watching me curiously. Truth be told, despite working day and night in casinos, I haven’t been around this much life in ages.
I rub my hands together and address them all. “How about an early dinner? I know a great little place down the street.”
“God, yes.” One of the sisters—the one dressed in an all-black ensemble despite it being early summer—clambers to her feet.
Allegra follows and sighs in agreement. “We could probably use some food to soak up the bubbles.”
Castellano doesn’t say a word, but neither does she remove her gaze from me as we bid farewell to the seamstress and head out onto the street. I become aware of her closest sister whispering something in her ear, but she bats it away.
I take them to an Italian restaurant owned by an old friend of my father and order everything on the menu. The table fills with chatter as they help themselves to prosciutto crostini, friedolives, and herbed ricotta. Even Castellano manages to eat a few bites.
