Page 3 of Where Wild Hearts Dance
Fed’s body wilts from the other side of the kitchen island, sending an anxious skip down my spine. A year ago he wouldn’t have cared whether I left or stayed—we’d just agree to meet up again the next day, no big deal. These days though, not getting his way when it comes to our friendship seems to bother him.
“No problem.” Mrs. Falconi shoots me a smile and I don’t miss the way the outer edges of her eyes haverelaxed now I’ve declined the offer. She starts laying out plates and setting cutlery on the table, making my brows draw together. It’s not even five p.m. and she’s serving dinner already?
“In fact,” I say, sliding off the stool, “I better get going.”
“What… now?” Fed hops off his stool, plants his palms on the island and glares at his mom.
“Um…” I glance at Mrs. Falconi but she has her back turned to us both. “Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow. I have a free period after lunch. Meet you outside the sports hall?”
Fed’s mouth opens and he’s about to reply, but a door slams out in the hall and the sound of tense conversation filters through the wall to the kitchen.
I hear several male voices. I identify one voice as that of Fed’s papa, Enzo Falconi. But the other two voices are unfamiliar. They’re talking low and deep, but not hushed. I can’t make out the words but the obviously tense atmosphere makes the hairs along my arms rise up.
“Why don’t you two go upstairs?”
I turn around and see Fed looking at his mother, his gaze searching for an explanation. When I look across at her, my breath stills. Her usual impeccably rouged cheeks have drained of color.
I start to decline, because I know I shouldn’t be here. “Thanks but I thought we couldn’t?—”
But before I can finish my sentence, Fed is at myside, wrapping his fingers around my hand and pulling me toward the staircase. “Let’s go, Tess.”
I can’t drag my eyes from his mom’s face as she watches us leave the room. Any other time, she’d be stopping us. There’s only one thing she’s ever been super-strict about and that’s letting Fed take me—or any other girl—up the stairs to his room. But while her voice is calm and measured, her fingers are vibrating against the countertop.
My heart thumps against the wall of my chest. Fed pulls my arm with an urgency that feels more like a need to get me alone in his room than a need to get away from the male voices that are sounding more and more agitated with every step we take.
The landing at the top of the stairs wraps around the entrance hall granting a view of the doors to the kitchen, living areas and the main entrance. My eyes catch on a movement to the right, behind the door to the dining room.
“Wait—” I pull Fed to a standstill. “What’s going on down there?”
Fed joins me as I press my back to the wall. Where I am as tense as a wound spring, he lets out a bored sigh. “Oh, who the hell knows? Papa probably forgot to pay the lease on time and you know what those Di Santo assholes are like. They’ll be here to inform him of the increased interest. Or the rise in protection fees.”
“TheDi Santo’sare here?”
My throat has dried up. The Di Santo’srulethis city. They’ve ruled it for so long, it feels like they’re almostlegit running the east coast. Everyone knows they have every governor, every official, even the FBI in their pocket. No one has been able to stop them, and now? No one dares to try.
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Fed grumbles.
I tense further at his nonchalance, which feels even more dangerous considering Di Santo men are in his house right now. “It doesn’t sound like a routine visit, Fed. It sounds a little intense.”
He scratches at the emerging bristles on his chin. “They’ll be gone in a minute. C’mon, let’s go to my room.”
I resist his pull and press my back harder into the wall. I can hear clipped commands now, and words spoken in a pleading tone. Fed might be unconcerned about what’s going on below us but I’m not. A flash of long chestnut hair catches in the corner of my eye. Fed’s mama is standing outside the dining room, holding onto the wall, and her fingers are trembling.
I pull away from the wall and lower my gaze to the gap in the door, trying to see through. A man dressed in a sharp, tailored suit shifts into view. My breath scratches the back of my throat. His height and build are nothing short of menacing, and his high cheekbones and full lips are the sort that lure in women like prey.
Everything about him is dark. Dark clothes, dark hair, dark brow.
I shudder. The Di Santos carry darkness with them everywhere they go. It only got blacker after Mama died, and I still blame them for her death, even thoughthe bullet was fired by a member of a rival mob—a Marchesi.
Thanks to my father’s port, we’ve always managed to stay on the good side of Gianni Di Santo and his men, but I can’t say the same for other folk in this city. And despite the mutual respect Gianni and Papa seem to have for one another, I know the don of New York can turn on a dime. I’ve seen it happen too many times and the thought of it releases a sick sense of dread in the pit of my stomach.
The front door bangs open and a man with hair thinning on the top of his head bursts into the entrance hall. Fed steps forward to look over the rail. Then he grips my hand again and whispers, “Zio.”
It’s been a while since I last saw Fed’s uncle but I recognize the resemblance to his father in the pattern balding, jerky gait and long fingers that flex as he approaches the dining room door.
“Mario, no?—”
Mrs. Falconi reaches out to stop him from going any further, but her plea falls on deaf ears when Fed’s uncle ignores her, presses two flat hands to the door and pushes it roughly. It swings inward revealing the full, rich profile of the man in black. He turns slowly to look at Mario but, no matter how hard I strain, I can’t see the details of his face from this angle.
