Page 34 of Where Wild Hearts Dance
“Yeah, I know.” I force a smile and bite back the words I really want to say: he was more than a friend and he always will be.
He was my first.
The pain of his rejection after what I gave to him cuts deep.
I wait until the door has closed before I take out thelast letter I sent him. My lids scratch against my eyeballs as I read.
Hey Fed,
It’s been three years and I haven’t heard from you once. I know what you’re thinking: take a hint, Tess! Well, finally, I have. This is the last letter I’m going to send.
This is so bittersweet. I’ve never had many friends, as you know, and so this habit of writing to you, well, it’s been kinda nice. I’m going to miss sending you gossip from school and complaining to you about Antonio. (I doubt you’ll miss that though, huh?)
I don’t have many other people to talk to beside my sisters and my aunt. There is a girl at dance class I talk to a little. Her name’s Paige and she’s kinda sweet, but she isn’t you. You knew me better than anyone, and I miss that.
I sometimes wonder if you’ve changed much. I hope you’ve found some friends, maybe a girlfriend. I hope you’re happy.
Things are changing around hereanyway. I have a recital coming up and my sister is engaged, so there will be wedding preparations to keep me busy. I have a horrible feeling that despite being allergic to it, I’m going to have to wear pink to the wedding *eyeroll* Apparently, wearing black as a bridesmaid is a bit of a faux pas.
Well, this is it Federico. I have no idea if you’ve read any of my letters, so if this is the only one you see, please know that I love you so much and miss you every day.
Take good care of yourself.
Yours always, Tess xxx
I close the box and place it on the bed, then I roll onto my stomach and bury my face in the comforter. I feel humiliated. The PO Box I sent the letters to belonged to a friend of Mrs. Falconi. If that had changed, why weren’t the letters returned to sender, unopened? I know in my bones that Fed received and read them. He simply chose not to reply. He chose to send them back, making it clear he’d read them all but didn’t think me important enough to put pen to paper for.
He betrayed me. After taking one of the most precious things a girl has to give, he then abandonedme. He lied.
Clarity slips through the haze of shame. Fed had coerced me into giving him my V card, by confessing his love for me, and promising we’d be together one day.
I know without a shadow of doubt Federico Falconi used me. He’s an asshole. But I can’t help but feel heartbroken at his rejection.
My jaw aches with bitterness and another face flashes into front of my lids. It’s the same face I saw when Federico took my virginity. Benito Bernadi. Fresh hatred floods my veins and I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling.
God, I want to hurt Bernadi. It’s his fault Federico left. At least if Federico was still here, I could have confronted him on his asshole behavior. Or, I wouldn’t have felt obliged to sleep with him in the first place.
The worst part about this is, I can’t tell anyone. People still ask me what happened to Federico and his family, but I dare not speak a word of it. I only told Trilby I lost my virginity because she coaxed it out of me after revealing a shocking truth of her own. There’s no way I could tell Sera—she would shake her head at me and tut a lot. I couldn’t tell Bambi—she’d think it was disgusting. I couldn’t tell Allegra—she’d have heart failure. And there’s no way in hell I could tell Papa—he feels indebted to Cristiano for saving Trilby and would only want our family to be held in high regard now we’re so at the center of the Di Santo empire—he’d beashamed to hear one of his Italian daughters was no longer pure.
I suddenly feel very tired. Lifting my knee, I point my foot at the box then shove it off the end of the bed. I hear the envelopes scatter across my bedroom floor. Then I close my eyes and drift off into a restless, weary sleep.
Benito
Nicolò is already sitting opposite Cristiano when I enter the office and settle in one of the four leather armchairs. A week has passed since I saw Contessa Castellano swim naked in the pool, and the sight is permanently etched on my eyeballs.
Cristiano looks across his desk at me. “Any word on who burned down your house?”
“Nothing,” I reply. “I even talked to Joe Bigelow…”
“The Marchesi associate?” Nicolò asks.
“Yeah. He says the Marchesi’s are keeping their cards close to their chests.”
Cristiano pulls a handful of cell phones out of a drawer in his desk. “Interesting. So, we don’t know if this is their way of retaliatingafter the drug bust?”
I shrug. “I doubt it is. It’s not Fury’s style. He prefers calculated theatrics over petty arson.”
“Your house going up in flames like that?” Nicolò arches a brow. “I’d say that was pretty theatrical.”
