Page 44 of Where Wild Hearts Dance
The barbershop.
Bernadi.
I jump to my feet feeling an irrational sense of need. I need to know he’s still alive. I don’t know why, and I don’t have the capacity to wonder a whole lot about it right now, but I need to know Bernadi isn’t hurt.
I walk tentatively to the window, reaching it just as another gunshot shatters the silent neighborhood. Through the netting I can see Bernadi inside the barbershop. He’s seated, slowly withdrawing his arm. The sunlight catches on metal as he pushes something into his waistband, then he stands and walks away from the window.
I swallow and take a step backward.
I don’t understand what just happened. That dance felt like a dream. I let go of every single inhibition. I was guided purely by the music, by gravity, and by the illusion of Bernadi’s gaze. He couldn’t even see me, yetI just performed the dance of my life. I wipe a hand around the back of my neck and feel the sweat dripping down my leotard.
He couldn’t even see me.
So,whydid I just perform the dance of my life?
Benito
Gaspare drags the blade smoothly up my neck as two of the men waiting their turn carry the body out back. Gaspare dips the razor into his metal bowl, rinses off the soap, then brings it back to my throat.
“Beautiful day, sir,” he murmurs through a furrowed brow.
My thoughts are still on Contessa. I can’t shake the image of her lithe form gliding across the room.
“It is,” I concede.
“Plans for this evening?”
Standard barbershop talk. Gaspare knows that even if I do have plans, I probably won’t divulge them. In reality, I had planned on visiting Augie and bringing him up to speed on some developments in Newark. Since Cristiano fought the Marchesi’s out of the place, some loose cannons remain and they’re stirring up shit for our soldiers on the ground. But, with the recent burning of my primary residence, and the situation with a certain Castellano girl, I don’t have the capacity to deal with Newark too.
My reaction to seeing Contessa dance—and importantly, seeingother menwatch her dance—has annoyed the fuck out of me. I didn’t know I had the gun in my hand for Christ’s sake.
I wouldn’t normally shoot a guy’s dick off—dead or not. For the injured—or deceased—party, it’s just one insult too far and I always thought I was above that.
I hate the idea that I might have a problem. That implies I’ve lost control—of my emotions, my physical reactions. And for a consigliere-come-assassin-come-second-in-command, that worries me.
So, as a priority, I need to get the vision of Contessa dancing like a fucking angel out of my head, the rhythm of her feet sending ripples through her thighs away from my damned dick. I need to be reminded of what I actually want: arealwoman. Not a young girl—a brat—who’s made no secret of the fact she can’t stand to breathe the same air as me.
For once, I decide to tell Gaspare the truth.
“I’m seeing a lady friend this evening, Gaspare.”
He nods approvingly. “Taking her somewhere nice, sir?”
My gaze flicks to the apartment above the dance studio. “I believe so, yes. Small, bijoux. Exclusive.Exceptionalpersonal service.”
“She’s a very lucky lady, sir.”
She damn well will be, after I’ve paid several thousand dollars for her time and her discretion. One night should do it. A brazen fuck to get that brat out of my head.
I inspect my clean shaven skin in the mirror. “Perfect, Gaspare. Grazie.”
I stand and pull a roll of notes from my pocket.
“No, boss.” Gaspare looks horrified. “It is on the house.”
I tilt my head and smile, making sure it doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “How is this place ever going to stand on its own two feet if we start giving service away?”
He looks like he’s just been spanked so I pat his cheek with a genuine smile. “You’re doing a good job, my friend. Don’t sell yourself short.”
