Page 4 of Where Wild Hearts Dance
“Shit,” Fed whispers beside me and we both lower our knees to the carpet to get a closer look. Fear pulses beneath my skin.
Two more figures come into view. They have their backs to the door but swing around when Mario enters.
My gaze narrows on them. I recognize one as Augusto Zanotti, Gianni Di Santo’s second-in-command. He owns Alphabet City, near Mr. Falconi’s offices. I don’t recognize the other man. Their gazes don’t dwell on Mario for long—if he thought he’d pose a threat to them, he couldn’t have been more wrong. They’ve given him as much attention as they would the shit on their shoes.
I hear Fed’s papa stutter something incomprehensible, then Mario pulls outa gun.
A gasp tears from my throat before Fed claps his hand over my mouth and I realize my mistake. The man in black takes a step backward and lifts his gaze to the landing. His hand rests on black metal at his waistband. Time stops as I take in his narrowed bronze eyes and tan skin marred by a scar that runs the length of one side of his face. Everything about him is calm, controlled,unaffected. Like the worst type of predator—deadly and carnivorous, as though he has the power to draw people to him like a magnet before gnashing his teeth around their limbs and eating them alive.
A hot flush coasts from my cheeks down my spine to my pelvis. This is what pure terror must feel like.
In fateful synchronicity, the sound of a gun cock fills the house, the bronze eyes dart away and Mario’s arm flies up, sending a bullet through the ceiling.
“Fuck—” Fed wraps an arm around my torso and pulls me backward. I always thought I was strong formy build but Fed’s muscles seem to have burst out of nowhere in the last few months. He manages to drag my stunned limbs a few feet along the landing. “Tess, comeon!” he hisses in my ear.
I can’t take my eyes off the dining room door. Flashes of black move past the opening in quick succession. There’s a fight. There are guns. Mrs. Falconi screams. More bullets are fired, yet I still can’t move.
Mario’s form appears in the gap; a tan hand is holding his neck tightly from the back. Then a gun is pressed up to his forehead. I can’t see who’s holding it.
“No—” The word floats from my lips like a puff of air.
I don’t hear a sound over the ringing in my ears but I watch as Mario’s body falls limply to the ground.
Fed chokes out a gasp and pulls me harder. This time, I move. I move faster than I’ve ever moved in my life. I scramble to my feet and pull Fed to his, then he grabs my hand and turns, hauling me down the landing toward his room. I twist back once to check there isn’t a gun pointed in our direction and there isn’t.
There’s something else.
A pair of hazel eyes, a heated glance, and most terrifying of all, a manunaffected.
I stumble to a bed in the center of the room while Fed shuts the door and bolts it. When I turn around, he’s pressed his back against the door as if to protect us against anyone entering. The man I just saw downstairs could snap Federico between his finger and thumb. The door would be a mere annoyance.
We stare at each other, our chests heaving with adrenaline, shock pulling at every nerve ending. The shouting below has quieted to barked commands and stuttered apologies. I jump when another door bangs closed, and only relax when the sound of tires on gravel rises up to the window.
Fed puts his hands over his face and that’s when I notice how large they’ve become. He’s starting to look like some college football player. The shake of his shoulders makes me stand and walk across the room, pulling him into me. He cries silent, wretched tears while I hold him tightly, stroking the back of his neck with my palm.
He just saw his uncle being murdered in cold blood.
The thought feels strangely distant, as though I’m having an out of body experience. I should be able to relate to how he’s feeling but I’m numb. I feel nothing.
It feels like hours have passed by the time he takes in a long breath and pulls out of my arms. His eyes are raw, his heartbreak written across them in bright red ink.
“I’m so sorry, Fed,” I whisper.
He simply nods, closes his eyes and shakes his head.
When his lids lift, he looks off to the side and his mouth ticks up in one corner. The cheeky, mischievous Fed I know is back in the room.
“What?” I ask, confused as to how he can find something funny right now.
His lips then twist into a bitter line. “When I thought about getting you in my room, this is not quite what I’d imagined.”
A combustion of nervous relief makes me laugh, then his smile falls soberly.
A light tap at the door makes me jump. I take a step back, suddenly aware of how close we’re standing.
“Federico…” Mrs. Falconi’s voice is trembling. “Are you okay?”
Fed unlocks the door, and his mama pushes through it and collapses onto him. “Oh baby. Are you okay?” She holds his face tightly, moving it this way and that, inspecting him for damage.
