Page 16 of Dreadful
“Other times…” I huff a small laugh. “I don’t know.”
“Keep thinking about it.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to know the answer.” He nods to me and pushes through the door. “Be sweet, Tallie.”
My heart flutters, and as soon as he enters the rain and passes the picture window, all the loud thoughts in my head come roaring back. They’d been relatively quiet around him, but they’re back in full force as I ruminate over the whole interaction. My mind breaks down each word and sentence, overanalyzing them as if I’m watching it replay over and over on a screen.
As my mind mulls over everything, it finally catches on to the small snippets that bugged me during the conversation. I pull the threads like I’m unraveling a bad stitch until I finally find the problem.
“Your grandfather said you work at the theater?”
Giodidsay that I worked at the theater…but he said it in Italian. And what did Sev call me when he first came in?
Vipera…viper. InItalian.
“Be sweet, Tallie.”
Tony has been telling me “fai la brava” since I was a kid, and he said it in front of Sev today…
Sev understood everything, which means he knows too much. Now that I’ve gotten further into my list, it’s more important than ever to fly under the radar.
If I’m not careful, Sev could unravel my entire world.
Scene 4
HAUNTED
Sever
The sidewalk is slippery thanks to the light rain that the evening chill will freeze later on. It makes me even more careful of the cracks than normal as I fire off a text while walking. Sweet Tallie’s Bakery isn’t too far from Luciano’s Cuts on Fleet Street, but I should’ve driven. The journey would’ve been fine had I not lunged to catch the bakers’ granddaughter.
I don’t know why I did it. A spur-of-the-moment move like that always has the potential to tweak my ankle. When I saw her going down, though, I didn’t think at all, I just dove. Every decision I make is deliberate to help me overcome all pain, but everything back in the bakery caught me off guard. Of course, that little shove she gave me after didn’t help.
Despite the ache in my leg, I smile at the memory of how perfectly she fit in my arms. Her full figure had been hidden beneath her baggy hoodie, but I felt every one of her curves beneath my hands. It was instinct to squeeze her closer, and it shocked the hell out of me when she pushed me away.
Later, when she’d taken her hood off, the warm recessed lighting had caught the reddish-gold tint in her chestnut curls, as if there was fire in each strand. The spirals kissed her light olive skin, flirting with the dimples in her cheeks. Her jawline had a slight redness—maybe a birthmark—that was covered by makeup. I’d been mesmerized by her, while she’d been self-conscious. If only she could’ve known that I’d give one of my brownstones in the Back Bay just to kiss along the edge of that mark.
“Talia,” I whisper, puffing a cloud of warm air into the freezing rain. Her name tastes good on my tongue, maybe even better than her sugar cookies.
Even though she was skittish and awkward, rebellion simmered in her golden-green hazel eyes. Every time she stopped spitting venom at me, I wanted to give her more ammunition.
I shake my head, still confused by the heat in my chest and the tingle down my spine. Women don’t make me feel this way. They’ve only ever been a means to an end to me, because that’s all I’ve ever been to them.
That’s what I’ve tried to remind myself with every step away from the bakery. But my phone is still warm in my hand from the message I just sent, and it’s taking all my willpower not to see if I’ve got a text back yet.
By the time I finally reach the barbershop, a plan is already forming in my mind, but I’ve got work to do first.
The hours on the window warn that I have very little time to get thismerdaover with before people start coming in for a cut and shave. I dawdled too long at the bakery, but I hated leaving that little vixen behind.
After unlocking the door, I push into my father’s shop. It’s been in my name for months, but it’ll always be his. The air pressure slams the door closed behind me, assailing my senses with the scent of his aftershave and cigarettes. The formidable Leto Luciano didn’t give a shit about Boston’s no smoking laws. I stopped allowing the habit after he died, but the smell still haunts this place.
Even now, wisps of memory flicker at the edges of my vision. He’s shaving a customer with one hand and tapping the cherry of his cigarette into an ashtray with the other. The look of disdain on his tan and weathered face as he appraises me is just as obvious as it was back then.
I try to shove the image away to free myself from him, but it’s never that easy.
My father loved exactly three things: his business, his wine, and the Family. But nothisfamily.
