Page 41 of Where Wild Hearts Dance
“You don’t, do you?” Bernadi’s eyes narrow and hesits back on his heels like the life has just been knocked out of him.
I can’t seem to do anything other than blink.
“Contessa…” He closes his eyes and shakes his head slowly, then lifts his lids, showering darkness and disappointment over me. “You told me to stay away from you,” he says in a low voice I’m sure only the devil can hear. “But do you think I’m going to leave you alone in a world that would take advantage of you without batting a fucking eyelid?”
I shift backward on the bed because the truth feels a sharp blade against sore skin.
“I mean it, Contessa. Someone has to protect you, because I don’t trust that you will.”
“I don’t need protection,” I say firmly.
He looks twice at me, like he can’t believe I just said that. “If I hadn’t shot that cretin, he’d have abducted you. You know that, don’t you?”
I straighten my spine and lower my lashes defiantly. “He followed me for three years and didn’t lay a finger on my body. Stop trying to scare me.”
He scrubs a hand down his face and stares out the window disbelievingly. “Oh my God, you’re so stubborn.”
“I resent that,” I say in a trembled whisper. “You don’t know me.”
He laughs darkly. “I don’t need to.” He lets those words linger as he shoves himself up to standing. His lip curls as though he’s disgusted with me. “I just need to keep you alive.”
He turns and stalks back to the door while I shout after his departing back. “I’m not your responsibility, Bernadi.”
He turns slowly, and there’s a strange fire in his eyes accompanied by venom I can almost taste. “No, you’re not. You’re Cristiano’s. And he has more pressing things to deal with than protecting a woman who refuses to have a mind of her own. So… you’ve got me.”
And with that, he yanks open the door, walks through it, then slams it so hard the wall shudders.
Benito
The average person might wonder why a bell is needed above the door of a twenty square foot barbershop with a window that gives an unobscured view of the road. But the average person probably doesn’t expect there to be a darkened office out back filled with safety deposit boxes, loaded firearms and a small round table that plays host to some of the less salubrious conversations this city has seen.
My height makes it difficult to avoid shop door bells so I have to duck to avoid the tinny ring. The manager stops midway through a beard trim and opens his arms.
“Signor Bernadi…Bello vederti.”
I let him kiss me on each cheek before nodding toward his client.
“Ciao Gaspare. It’s good to see you too.Rasatura bagnata? When you’ve finished up with this gentleman, of course.” Sure, I had a different business opportunity in mind when I opened this place, but that’s no reason not to build a decent client base for this little outfit. No paying customer should have their service cut short, not even for me.
“Si, si. Assolutamente. Please, take a seat.”
There are three barber chairs in the shop and each one is full, along with most of the waiting area seats. I recognize most of the men here—they’re each involved in Di Santo business in some shape or form. And they’ve each been trained to only speak to me if I speak to them first. I never intended to become that kind of boss, especially since I’m not even acapo—I’m anadvisor—but my reputation for being a fast aim and taking zero shit from anyone must have preceded me.
Slowly, conversation returns to a semi-normal pace and volume but the topics are tame. Normally the walls are ringing with banter. I don’t doubt they’re watching their words because I’m in the room.
I scroll through my emails until I’ve read everything, then glance sideways out the window. The dance studio is lit from inside but, as always, a thin veil of netting conceals anything beyond the window from the eyes of passersby. All I can see are shadows moving about.
A group of girls leaves the studio. My breath hitches as I scan them in search of a familiar, dark-haired brat.She’s due to leave about now, which is a large part of the reason I’m sitting in this chair right opposite, but there’s no sign of her.
After her little confession at Cristiano’s and her stubborn refusal to see that her life is worth anything, I’m more determined than ever to keep a close eye on Contessa Castellano. She’s slipped through the net too many times. She cares more about other people than she does herself, and it makes me so furious I can barely speak.
I’m about to call Nicolò and order him to track her down when a truck pulls up a few yards along from the dance studio.
It looks like it’s delivering groceries to the store two doors down, but that’s not what grabs my attention. Somehow, the position of the truck is reflecting light into the studio, making the netting almost transparent. There’s one person left in the empty space. One person with legs that go on for days, dark hair tied in a severe knot at her crown, and a skin-colored latex outfit that shows every lethal curve and line.
My throat feels suddenly dry so I get up to grab a glass of water, then realize every single punter in the shop is staring at the studio, watching the very same thing I was half a second ago: Contessa Castellano.
I have an inexplicable urge to slit the throat of every one of them.
