Page 13 of Where Wild Hearts Dance
Her mention of Cristiano’s late brother—the man Trilby was supposed to marry to save our father’s business—sends a shudder down my spine. I knew the first time I laid eyes on him at Gianni’s funeral he wasn’t the man for Trilby, and that was before I found out he’d sliced a knife through a soldier’s throat and ripped out his jugular a foot away from her, and planned to use our father’s port for trafficking humans,andfor poisoning my sister. Then again, it also dawned on methat day, none of us would likely ever be able to choose a man for ourselves. Not with our now-close connection to the Di Santos. It was only because Cristiano killed his own brother and took up the role of don himself that Trilby got the man she actually wanted.
Unbeknown to us all, Trilby and Cristiano had gotten close since that day. So close in fact, he’s already moved her into his home, marriage-be-damned. I mean, it’s on the cards, obviously. He’s a don with a reputation to uphold—he needs that proof of purchase. But it seems he can’t wait one minute longer to have her under his roof.
Bambi pulls me up the steps to the porch where the sound of Sera’s squeals echo round the entrance hall. She has Trilby in some sort of semi-affectionate headlock. Even Allegra looks half-prepared to call the emergency services.
Bambi skips past them toward the back of the house so I follow her, craning my neck to take in every inch of whitewashed opulence. Cristiano’s late mother had beautiful taste. It’s notmytaste but I can appreciate it at least. As we walk beneath high ceilings and mid-century shades, across pale wood floors and through softly furnished rooms, I put my imaginary stamp on them.
Walls and ceilings would be matt steel with heavily detailed cornices, black crystals hanging from glass chandeliers. Furnishings would be dark, old, shadowy, filled with candles, books, gothic ornaments. Ostrich feathers would fill the corners, real logs would burn inthe fireplaces and enormous mirrors would reflect the flames. The house would feature every shade of black and my heart and soul would feel perfectly at home.
After we’ve explored nearly every inch of the house, familiar voices draw us to the terrace. A large pool glitters beneath the sun and crystal glasses ting with a note of celebration. I settle onto a lounger and watch the sun dance through swaying branches.
I have one earpiece in so I can listen half to the White Stripes and half to the chatter going on across the terrace. The sound of my stomach rumbling threatens to obliterate both, but I can’t face Allegra’s death glare for asking about food again. She doesn’t understand that dancing for five hours a day requires a little more fuel than sitting around in bars getting drunk, which is what most people my age seem to do. For a short second, my chest tightens, but I know it’s from a feeling of not wanting to be left out than a genuine desire to do the same.
I stretch my arms above my head and rest them over the back of the lounger. At odds as I am with some aspects of my sister’s new life, this terrace is hard to fault. Cool blue water laps at the edge of the pool and the sun kisses every inch of my skin. Being the palest of four sisters, I’m conscious I have about ten more minutes before I have to re-coat myself in factor fifty. I lift a knee lazily and arch my spine giving it a good stretch. The hem of my tight dress rises up my thighs but I can’t summon the effort to pull it back down. Besides, my limbs arelovingthis heat.
The volume on the terrace has turned up a touch and male voices infiltrate my head. I recognize one as Cristiano’s. The second I’m not familiar with, but it sounds mature and friendly enough. Not worth opening my eyes for just yet. I lose myself to the lyrics ofFell in love with a girland try to forget how damn hungry I am.
When the words ‘Let’s sit’ work their way past the guitar riffs, I’m up. Those words mean food is probably imminent and I realize I should probably say hello to my future brother-in-law rather than appear rude.
My heels click along the stone terrace then I slide into a seat beside Bambi. I’ve had my eyes closed to the blinding sun for so long I can only see shadows. Someone fills my glass with water and I gulp it down gratefully.
Bambi has her head buried in a Taylor Swift magazine. Allegra compliments Cristiano on the house. Sera quizzes him on the casino business and I can hear Trilby laughing softly at something the other guy has said.
I wring my hands beneath the white lace tablecloth and wait for the food to appear, while wondering why, when I’m now sitting in the shade, I can still feel the burning sun on the side of my face.
The sound of footsteps from the house makes my mouth water. I turn to see what kind of delicious feast is heading our way, and just like that, my appetite is gone.
Benito Bernadi is leaning back in a chair at the end of the table, his elbow resting on the arm, a finger stroking back and forth over his top lip. His gaze restson me. It is heavy, palpable and intrusive, and I feel it in my bones.
I quickly look away as hatred leaks into my bloodstream. When didthat manget here?
I lift my chin and fold my arms across my chest. But even as I distract myself with the now-unappetizing food being laid out on literal silver platters, I can still feel his bronze eyes on my skin.
“What’s his deal?” Bambi’s whisper makes me jump. Her magazine lies open across her plate setting but she’s taking a break from her version of the bible to observe her surroundings. I don’t need to follow her gaze to know who she’s talking about. “And why is he staring at you like that?”
“Because he’s an asshole,” I murmur. I reach for a serving spoon and start helping myself to pasta. I need carbs. Only when my plate is full do I hasten a glance in his direction. I’m relieved to see his attention is now on Papa. His position hasn’t changed though. His body is still angled toward me and he still looks like a nonchalant piece of shit who’s too big for his chair.
“Do you know him, Tess?” Bambi presses.
I shovel an enormous forkful of pasta into my mouth as I haven’t quite worked out how to answer this question. And I hadn’t expected Bambi to be the one to ask it. She was only thirteen when Fed left town. I have to figure out the PG-rated version, and fast.
“Do you?” she presses.
“I don’tknowhim. I knowofhim.”
“And?”
“He’s just an asshole.”
“An asshole who seems pretty close to our sister’s fiancé.”
It’s an unfortunate, but valid, point. I shovel another forkful of pasta in my mouth to prevent me from cursing aloud in front of my present and future family.
“How do you knowofhim?” She closes her magazine and helps herself to antipasti.
I glance sideways to check he’s still preoccupied with Papa, then I take a long sip of water and look into my sweet younger sister’s eyes. “You remember Federico?”
Her nose wrinkles for a second. “Falconi? Sure I do. He used to come around a lot. I miss him.”
