Page 49 of Where Dark Hearts Devour
“Fine. Yes, I’m talented.” I purse my lips to stop anything leaving my mouth that I might regret.
“There’s a but . . .”
Damn, he’s annoyingly astute.
I drop the brush and glare at him. “But ... it doesn’t matter, does it? It isn’t like I’m going to be able to put it to good use. I’m being married off. I have to say goodbye to further education and work and anything that means—heaven forbid—I might fulfil my potential ...”
“Hold up,” he says, frowning. “Who said you have to give up your education?”
“Papa,” I snap. “And don’t act all surprised—you know it’s the Cosa Nostra way. I can’t work when I’m a Mafia wife. I’ve done enough research to know it doesn’t reflect well on the husband if his wife works too.”
Cristiano’s stare pierces my skin until it hurts to look at him. The desire to paint is gone, so I busy myself putting away the colors. The sun is dipping behind the clouds anyway, and I’m beginning to feel a chill.
Without warning, he gets to his feet and brushes his hands down his slacks. It’s only then I realize he’s been squatting for the past twenty minutes. My leg muscles would have burned to a crisp by now.
I tear my eyes away from his thick thighs, but not quickly enough. His lashes flick upward and catch me staring.
As the flames of humiliation flicker up my neck, heating my cheeks, I turn away from him so he can’t witness my embarrassment. I needn’t have worried, though, because when I do finally turn around, thankfully, he’s gone.
I breathe out a sigh of relief. I can’t afford for him to get even the smallest glimpse of my true feelings—how weak I feel the second he enters a room. It shouldn’t matter that Savero isn’t out here with me and Cristiano is. And I absolutely, unequivocally, shouldn’t prefer it that way.
Trilby
I’ve never been one to speak ill of the dead, but I wish Giovanni Luigi Marioni the third had picked a different day to die.
I haven’t even met the man, but his reputation as one of Gianni Di Santo’s favorite capos preceded him, and as with most things shaped by violence, I find it hard to feel sorry for him.
As is tradition in the Marioni family, a funeral must be held exactly ten days from the second the deceased became, well ...deceased, regardless of whether the last breath was taken at midday or midnight.
Exactly nine days, twenty-three hours, and ten minutes ago, Gio Marioni was shot between the eyes in the heart of Queens for beheading a close Mexican acquaintance of the Marchesis. Which is why I’m now sitting in a long black vehicle, playing the role of spare wheel to my fiancé and his phone, instead of presenting my final art show at the college.
I gaze out the window, watching the gray buildings pass by. We left the homely boulevards of Long Island an hour back and have now entered the more industrial streets of Williamsburg.
I turn to face the other view—that of my future husband. His focus is entirely on his call, which I gather to be “work”-related since it’s peppered with words like “tracks” and “boxes.” It doesn’t take a genius to know he’s talking about cocaine smuggling.
I tune out the voice and concentrate on his face. I’ve only had a handful of moments to study Savero, so I seize the chance to do so as discreetly as I can.
I study him objectively, like a piece of work I have to critique for a college project. His jaw is molded with hard lines to match the immovable frown covering his brow. His lips are full, though often pursed into a thin line when things aren’t going the way he likes. His brows are thick like his brother’s, but his irises are lighter—more bronze than burgundy—and his cheeks set lower.
My gaze runs downward, taking in his neck—thinner and leaner than Cristiano’s—and his shoulders—slim and sharp compared to his brother’s thick, rigid form. I’ve seen them stand side by side only a few times, but I remember there being about three inches between them, Cristiano being markedly taller.
I find myself wondering if I’ll ever feel the same pull toward Savero that I seem to feel for his brother. I wonder if that’s why I feel so strongly for Cristiano ...
Because he’s the wrong man. The man I can’t have.
I haven’t seen him since he sat with me while I painted. That was over a week ago.
Savero doesn’t even know I paint.
I look out the window again, just as we pull into the gravel parking lot of the St. Augustus Church.I sit up sharply. I didn’t know we were coming to this church. Of all the Catholic churches in Brooklyn, why this one?
My chest tightens.
Feelings I thought I’d buried start clamoring for oxygen.
Savero’s phone snaps shut, and he rests a hand casually over mine. I drop my gaze to it, wondering when the warmth might penetrate my skin, or when butterflies will take flight in my lower abdomen, but there’s nothing. Then again, my heart is stuttering with the aftereffects of trauma. I haven’t been to this church in five years. And I vowed never to set foot in it again.
“Wait here for five minutes.”
