Page 19 of Where Wild Hearts Dance
Reading the notes and looking around the walls… If I hadn’t already killed the guy I would be torturing him toenail by fucking toenail. How the hell had he gotten away with this? Why hadn’t she said something? I don’t know who I’m most angry at right now—a dead man… orher.
“The stalking wasn’t why I killed him,” I say, distractedly.
Nicolò spins around. “What? Then why?”
I shrug. “He was standing less than two feet from her and he smelled her hair.”
Nicolò’s eyes pop. “You gonna kill every guy that stands within two feet of her and takes a breath?”
I shrug again. “She’s a Di Santo now. She’s my responsibility.”
Nicolò arches a brow. “She was still a Castellano last time I checked.”
My blood heats.
“What?” He holds his hands up. “Why are you glaring at me like you want to put metal to my head and fire it?”
“Last time youchecked?” My voice is unusually low.
His shoulders drop. “It’s a saying, Benny. Of course I’m not actually checking on her. My point is, don’t you have enough on your plate? She’s not a Di Santo.”
“Don’t let Cristiano hear you say that,” I warn. “She’s his fiancée’s sister. Di Santo or not, she’s a part of the family.”
Nicolò shakes his head. “Does she know she’s under your surveillance?”
Until now, I hadn’t realized she was, but there’s no point denying I’ve had my eye on her ever since that day on Cristiano’s terrace. “There’s nothing to be gained from her knowing I now have my eye on every man who comes within a half mile radius of her.” I turn and walk back to the door.
Nicolò’s words follow me. “Just her?”
“What?” I reach for the gun in my waistband.
“What about the other two sisters?”
I frown at the question. “The second is in the Hamptons—not my jurisdiction. The fourth is practically held captive by the aunt. Contessa is foolish enough to let a psychopath stalk her for three years—clearly no one’s keeping a close enough eye on her.”
“Except you.” Nicolò grins as he brushes past me.
I shoot him a glare, then I turn to face the room one last time. Those photographs don’t belong here. Her face doesn’t belong in this basement dive alongside psychotic musings and rising mold. I aim my gun into the room and imagine he’s standing in the center of it so I can kill him all over again.
Then I dump an entire chamber of lead in the walls.
The heavy notes of a piano followed by a sweeping symphony rise up through the floorboards. After the day I’ve had, I welcome the soothing effect the music below has on me.
I nudge an empty vodka bottle with the toe of my shoe then turn to the realtor. “When was it last occupied?”
“Four, maybe five, years ago.” There’s an apologetic note to his tone. “It hasn’t been too popular a neighborhood. But, you know, with the barbershop on the street opposite, things might pick up.”
As I walk to the window, a silver wrapper in the corner of the room catches my eye. I really hope that isn’t what it looks like.
I watch a client leave the barbershop, manila envelope tucked beneath his arm, then turn my head to the side. “It’ll need a deep clean.”
“Of course, sir.” The realtor scrambles in his bag for the papers.
“And you can cut fifty percent off the lease,” I snap. “Consider it a tax for showing me a place that hasn’t been swept first for condom wrappers.”
He gulps and his gaze darts around, eventually settling on the silver wrapper I’d spotted. “I… um… of course, sir. My apologies, sir.”
“If the owner gives you a hard time, give them my number.”
