Page 23 of Where Dark Hearts Devour
Even my painting hasn’t pulled me out of the haze of depression like it usually does. Whatever challenges I’ve lived through, I’ve learned to cope by pouring all my emotions into my art. Even my outfits. Sera always says she can tell what mood I’m in or what side of my personality will come out that day by the clothes I choose to wear. “Choose” being the operative word.
I stare down at the dress Allegra had delivered. It sits stiffly on my hips and makes a scratchy sound when I move. The label describes the color as “sand,” but it’s beige. Frustration tenses my shoulders. I’ve never worn beige clothing, and I refuse to start now.
I step out of the ugly garment and fling it to the bedroom floor, then I pull out one of my favorite outfits: a red silk dress that falls just below my knees but makes up for the conservativecut by hugging my curves a little too hard. Allegra will have a conniption, but I don’t care.
I kick off the nude kitten heels she keeps making me wear and slip on my highest heeled stilettoes. Leopard-print patent leather. Clashy, different, perfect.
I stand in front of the mirror. I look more like myself, but since the engagement announcement four days ago, I feel diminished.
Meeting Savero Di Santo wasn’t the heart-racing pinnacle of my romantic life I’d hoped for. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t to be given a front row seat to a gruesome kill, then dismissed for most of the evening, and relegated to the ranks of all the other faceless, nameless women in his life crowded into that one corner of the room where the light doesn’t shine.
The only memory worth holding onto from that evening is the one of the monstrous balloon lying flat on the ground, my fiancé’s brother having fired a bullet into it. But each time I recall Cristiano standing casually over the multicolored foil, guilt, shame, and raw nerves punch me in the chest.
I still don’t remember what happened at Joe’s, and despite Cristiano saying we only talked, I don’t believe him. We touched—I’m sure of it. Why else would the heat of his palm when he shook my hand feel so natural and familiar? And if he’s not being honest about that, what else isn’t he telling me?
Papa has hardly been home since the engagement announcement. He’s been at the port around the clock with Savero’s men. It seems my fiancé doesn’t want to wait until I’ve signed the marriage certificate, which makes me question whether I’m needed in this arrangement at all. But then I remember the look on Papa’s face when he told me of my fate. He wouldn’t have agreed to give me to this man—“the mostviolent man in New York,” according to his brother—if he’d had any other choice.
I just have to hope with all my heart that whatever Cristiano isn’t telling me about that night, he isn’t going to share it. Because I can’t be the cause of my family’s ruin. I can’t be the next in line to be sliced open with a silver blade.
My phone buzzes on the restroom counter. I glance down and see Allegra’s name.
Allegra: Trilby Castellano, you’d better be on your way. We need to be ready to receive the don. He’ll be here any minute now. And don’t forget to straighten your hair.
I glance at my hair in the mirror. Messy waves brush my shoulders and trail over my forehead. I sigh and reach for the straighteners, then I put them down again. I’m probably already walking towards my imminent demise for wearing this dress—I may as well fully commit.
It wasn’t long after Mama died that I began bleaching my hair blonde. I didn’t need a shrink to know it was a symbolic way of detaching myself from the world around me. While we’ve never been an intrinsic part of the Mafia, we’ve lived close enough for me to feel its dark red stain and resent the olive-skinned, dark-hairedItaliannessof it. The less I looked like I belonged in its vicinity, the more easily I could stomach Mama’s murder.
The sound of the doorbell makes me jump. Allegra must have gotten impatient waiting.
I walk to the door and mutter loud enough that she can hear, “Honestly, anyone would think I was about to hotfoot it to Atlantic City or sell myself to a circus.”
I yank open the door expecting to see Allegra’s pursed lips, but instead I get a shock that almost knocks me out at the knees.
“Let me guess. Trapeze artist?”
I don’t know what takes my breath away first: the Barolo-colored eyes holding mine at three paces, the velvety voice dripping with mild amusement, or the factCristianoDi Santo is leaning against my doorframe.
My mouth falls open, and he reaches his thumb and forefinger up to scruff the manicured stubble on his chin as he regards me.
“I hope you’re not always going to be this surprised to see me,” he drawls, “because maybe we should get you on blood pressure medication now.”
My heart thuds like a drum. Medication doesn’t sound like a bad idea right this second. Nerves are fluttering around my chest like rabid wasps.
“Why—?” I flush at my squeaky voice and clear my throat. “Why are you here?”
His face is so still it could have been carved from granite. Then he sucks in a breath. “Sav is going to be late. I’ve come in his place.”
Of course. Why else would he be here?
But something about his demeanor makes me feel like I’m being played with. All it would take is the mere mention of my drinking to Savero, never mind the fact I talked to Cristiano having no idea who he was, to put this whole arrangement into jeopardy. Cristiano knows my secret, and he could share it with anyone at any time. I’m at his mercy, and despite the fear that lines my stomach, that fact ignites something inside me. Something new and untested and dangerous.
His eyes flicker to the hallway behind me. “May I see your father?”
“Um, sure. I’m on my way around there now.” I look for a space beyond the door to step into, but his body takes up the entire doorway. I bite my top lip nervously and glance around—anywhere but at him.
“On your way around where?” I hear the frown in his voice.
I jerk my head to the right. “Next door.”
