Page 18 of Where Wild Hearts Dance
“This is the place.”
I’m standing at the foot of some grand steps leading to an even grander brownstone in the lower east village. Cristiano’s cousin, Nicolò, is back by our side in New York where he belongs, and not out in Vegas running casino hotels, which is where Cristiano had sent him. He lasted all of ten days before he got bored out of his mind and begged Cristiano to let him come home. Our don replaced him with some straighter-laced guys with a view to maintaining at least some sort of legitimacy within his newly-acquired Di Santo empire.
“Well, this is a surprise,” I say, taking in the neat paintwork and tidy stoop.
The scrawny guy I shotin the head looked like he didn’t have two cents to rub together, let alone enough money to afford a place in a smart brownstone.
Nicolò shoots me a morbid glance over his shoulder. “Not so much.”
Instead of walking up the steps, he leads me to a stairwell I’d completely missed that heads down into the bowels of the building’s foundations. I loosen my tie and follow Nicolò to the bottom where he sticks a knife into a lock. I don’t bother looking around to check no one is witnessing us breaking and entering. We own this part of the city, and every other part will follow soon if Cristiano continues the way he’s begun. If the cops found us here they’dhelp. They’d know if they didn’t they’d find a family member tied by the neck to the branch of a very tall tree in Central Park.
The door creaks inward and I follow Nicolò inside. We’re both instantly hit by the stale stench of rotting food. I glance sideways at a kitchenette which reveals overflowing trash cans, cockroaches and rat feces.
Jesus, this place should be condemned.
“How did you find it? Social security?”
Nicolò steps gingerly over a pile of dirty laundry. If I know anything about this capo, it’s that he does not like to get his shoes dirty. Hands? Sure. Shoes? Absolutely fucking not.
“No. The guy had a diary in his pocket with his address written up front.”
“A diary? How old was this guy—twelve?”
When Nicolò looks back over his shoulder, his gaze darkens. “It wasn’t that kind of a diary.” He stops andturns to face me, his hands stuck in his pockets and his arms rigid. “Are you sure you want to see this?”
“How the fuck should I know?” I throw my arms out. “You haven’t told me what we’re going to see, just that I would probably want to see it…”
Nicolò’s gaze shoots sideways as though he’s recalling the conversation, then he nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I think you would.”
I follow him down a dingy corridor that smells of mold, then Nicolò pushes on the last door to the left. I’m still eyeing the floor for live vermin when I realize the carpet has changed color and I look up.
The room has been painted black. The floor—thecarpet—has beenpaintedblack. The window—the only source of light in the entire place, which even then faces a wall rising up to ground level—is painted black.
Nicolò flicks a switch, casting the room in a cheap yellow light, and I take it all in.
It’s not often in my line of work that I feel sick, and I see perhaps a million times more blood and weeping flesh than the average person. But right now I want to hurl into a fucking basin.
Contessa Castellano’s face is plastered to every damn surface a thousand times over. Photographs, college magazine articles, family fucking portraits. Newspaper clippings where she and her sisters feature beside photographs of Cristiano and his late father and brother. Contessa from every possible angle.
I take two steps toward the longest wall and absorb the details. He’s tacked notes to each picture, detailinghis thoughts and intentions for each one. They range from a desire to hold her hand towaymore graphic and disgusting actions. And to think she knew nothing of them. To think she thought he washarmless.
“I’ve never known you to regret anything,” Nicolò says, watching me carefully. “But if you were in any doubt as to whether your guy deserved that bullet, read this.”
He points to a note below what appears to be the most recent photograph of my boss’s sister-in-law. At first I’m gripped by the visual. She’s emerging from the studio, dressed in black, as always, in figure-hugging gym gear that makes me need to swallow a few times. Her long black hair has just been freed from a ponytail—as evidenced by the scrunchie she’s tying around her wrist. And her eyes are wide and bright, the way they always seem to be after she’s danced for several hours.
I force my gaze to the note tacked to the image.
You looked at me today,it reads.Now I know it isn’t all in my head. We’re going to be together. You won’t walk away from me anymore. You won’t run like you did the other day. You’ll let me wrap my hands around your neck and squeeze until you beg me for air. I will be your air, Tess. I will be everything you need. Not long now, my love. I’m coming for you.
I inhale tightly. “He was planning to abduct her.”
Nicolò snorts. “That wasn’t all he was planning.”
He hands me a small pile of notes and I flick through them. Scattered sentences, drawings, random words. “What’s this?” I look up at him.
“He was detailing every single vile thing he could do to her once he got her in this shithole,” Nicolò says, matter of fact. “It’s a little jumbled. One word of advice: don’t read it while you’re eating.”
He solemnly reaches out and takes the notes from my hand. “It was just a matter of time, Benny. It was a good thing you shot him when you did.”
