Page 52 of Where Dark Hearts Devour
“I’m so sorry. When did it happen?”
He shifts slightly, and his arm brushes against mine, raising the hairs across my skin. “Ten years ago. I was seventeen.”
I shake my head at the horror of it all. Between Cristiano and Savero, and me and my three sisters, that’s six kids deprived of a mother, all because of the criminal underworld lurking around every corner.
I look sideways at him and momentarily admire how composed he is when talking about something so personal; so emotional. “What did you do?”
“I moved to Vegas soon after. I got special dispensation from my father to leave this world behind. I wanted nothing to do with it. I still don’t.” He shakes his head as if he’s the one who needs convincing. “At least, it’s what I keep telling myself. The life I have now, the businesses I run—sure, it’s not always straight and legal, but Ichoseit. I run these businesses entirely by myself. Every bit of success I’ve had, I made it on my own. And I haven’t had to put a bullet in anyone’s head to make it happen.”
I nod as though I understand, but I don’t.
Unlike Cristiano, I don’t have a choice. Unlike Cristiano, I can’t marry whomever I want, because apparently, I have to be pawned off to “save” our family. Cristiano can come and go as he pleases; his family accepts that from him. But me? I’m stuck in this way of life, and I’ll never be able to leave.
I feel his eyes settle on me as if they can reach into my soul and hear every thought.
“I’m fortunate,” he says softly. “I got to choose a different path. I chose not to follow in the footsteps of my father and Sav. I didn’t want that kind of life. I felt like I owed it to our mother to create a different life, to improve the chances of at least one of us living till we’re sixty.”
I hesitate, unsure my next question is appropriate given how short a time ago it was, but I figure we’ve probably gone past thepoint of appropriate by exchanging the details of our mothers’ bloody murders. “How old was your father when he died?”
He laughs, low and bitter. “He was six months shy of his sixtieth birthday.”
“Oh man,” I whisper.
“Yeah.” He sighs heavily and with a note of suspicion. “He went too soon. None of us expected it. He was fit and healthy.”
“I’m sorry. It must have been a shock.”
He cracks his knuckles and stares at the ground.
“Savero seems to be handling it okay,” I suggest.
“My brother will never show his true emotions.” His gaze seems to darken as though he doesn’t necessarily approve.
I wring my hands and then realize I’ve picked up the damn habit from Allegra. “Not even with me?” I ask quietly.
His jaw hardens, and he turns to face me. The heat of his unwavering focus on the surface of my skin will never get easier to bear. Every cell of my body wants to turn from him, but like an addict who just laid eyes on their next fix, I can’t draw my attention away.
“I don’t know the answer to that.” He speaks softly, but there’s an edge to his tone. “As far as I know, he’s never shown his true emotions to anyone his entire life.”
Does he even have emotions?I want to ask, but I realize how dark and judgmental that might sound.
“That must be very tiring,” I say instead.
Cristiano smooths his hands down his suit pants and then stands and holds out a hand. “I’m sure it would be,” he says with a taut smile.
I can’t hear anything properly as I place my hand in his, because my pulse is thundering at the feel of his fingers wrapped around mine, but I swear he mutters something that sounds like, “If he actually cared for anyone else.”
We walk up the steps to the church, and I make no attempt to withdraw my hand from Cristiano’s. I know he’s only holding it because I very nearly passed out on him, and he probably doesn’t want to be burdened with a comatose woman at the funeral of his father’s favorite capo. Still, a small part of me imagines he’s holding my hand because he wants to. Because, if he’s anything like me, he’scravingthis touch, and he can’t seem to think of anything else, as inconvenient as it is.
At the top of the steps, the doors open, and he drops my hand, leaving the sensation of his heated skin on mine to evaporate into the thick Brooklyn air.
The church looks smaller somehow, as if my recollection of that day is slightly less poignant than this moment I’m sharing with someone else who also lost their mother. Someone who understands.
Thankfully, no heads turn our way as we walk quietly down the aisle and slide into the first empty pew. I can see Savero sitting several rows ahead, but he doesn’t turn around. Not that it matters, because Cristiano’s thigh is pressed against mine with a possessiveness I want to devour, and despite the memories nudging at my consciousness, I can’t think of anything else.
Cristiano
Growing up, I was always the calm one, the steady one.
