Page 12 of Where Dark Hearts Devour
It’s even seeped into my art.
The visions that haunt me every night were bound to work their way into my paintings. It was inevitable. What I wouldn’t give for a peaceful night—one where I don’t startle awake repeatedly, gasping for breath, or surface feeling like I haven’t slept at all because my dreams have exhausted me.
Last night I shunned Sera’s offer of a sleeping pill—further proof she knows more about my tortured sleeping pattern than she’s letting on—because I didn’t want to wake up even groggier than usual. But after Papa delivered the news I was to marry a Di Santo, my nightmares were filled with more darkness and destruction, so I guess the joke’s on me.
I drop the paintbrush into a pot and sit at my dressing table. As I smudge some highlighter onto my cheeks, something sparkles in the corner of my eye. I open the ballerina jewelry box Mama gave me as a kid and pull out the hair comb I usually only wear once a year. Its clusters of crystals shine up at me, a glimmer of light in a sea of gray.
I remember the first time I saw Mama wear this comb in her hair. It was my parents’ tenth wedding anniversary, and they were heading out to dinner, leaving me and Sera with Papa’s sister, Aunt Allegra. I was six years old. I begged Mama to let me wear it one day. I remember how she laughed. I don’t know if her laugh really did sound like silver bells in the wind, but I certainly remember it that way.
I was asleep when they returned home, but when I awoke the following morning, the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was a cluster of crystals on my pillow. I folded my small hand around the comb and clutched it to my heart. It was then—and still is—the most precious thing I own.
I scoop my hair up on one side and tuck the comb in to hold it in place just as the doorbell rings.
It doesn’t take me long to reach the door. My apartment is small, but it’s all I need. It was converted from a garage attached to the main house just before Mama died, and I made such a fuss about wanting to move into it so I could grieve in peace that Papa didn’t have the heart to deny me. It also meant that when Allegra moved in to take over the care of me and my sisters, she could have my old room.
Unlike most Italian women in our community, Allegra has never married or had children. She’s always been a doting aunt, though, even if she sometimes has a funny way of showing it.
As soon as I open the door, Allegra struts past me, curling a lip at my painting outfit and brandishing a hideous pair of shoes, which she promptly places on my bedroom floor.“Trilby, please change out of that sack. We have to leave in five minutes.”
I take a steadying breath and step out of the paint-splattered overalls.
“And put these on.” She points to the shoes and huffs impatiently. “Now is not the time to be arriving fashionably late.”
I arch a brow and peer down at the beige kitten heels. There’ll be nothing fashionable about it in those. Only late.
“I’m not in any hurry to marry the Mafia,” I say, slipping my feet reluctantly into the ugly shoes.
She yanks a strap a little too hard. “Honey, you’re not marryingtheMafia. You’re marrying one man.”
“One man who happens to be head of the biggest crime family in New York.” The thought still makes me shudder. I find it ironic that as someone who detests violence in all its forms, I have to marry perhaps the biggest source of it this side of Chicago.
“Come on, Trilby.” Her tone’s tight, and I can tell I’m testing her patience. “If you cast your net wide enough in this neighborhood, sooner or later you’re gonna reel in a made man.”
“He’s a little more than a made man,” I mutter.
Allegra glares at me, sympathy morphing into despair. “We live in modern-day New York, and your father is one of the family’s most trusted associates. Marrying a Di Santo man was practically inevitable, and to marry the don himself is the highest privilege of all.”
“And a death sentence to boot,” I add under my breath.
“Don’t be such a pessimist.” Allegra folds her arms defensively and nods pointedly at the shoes. “Now look—they’re not so bad, are they?”
I’d prefer to take my chances and argue, but it’s clear nothing will get me out of wearing these godawful heels. “These aren’t really my style.”
“They’re chic, Trilby. They’re befitting of a sophisticated Mafia wife. You’re going to have to get used to wearing?—”
“Beige?” I cock my head to one side.
Allegra rolls her eyes and stands back to take a good look at the beigeness that is, apparently, my palette for the foreseeable future. “You won’t be wearing neutrals entirely,” she says with narrowed eyes. “It’s a funeral, dear. You’re wearing black today.”
She reaches behind her and presents me with an outfit only a widow from the 1800s would be seen dead in. In fact, many were probably buried in such a garment. It’s calf-length, with an A-line skirt in starched cotton, and a blouse buttoned up to the neck.
I stare back at Allegra, feeling my brows caressing my hairline. “I’m not wearingthat,” I say without thinking. “It is neither chic nor sophisticated.”
For a second she looks at me as if I’ve slapped her. Then I realize my mistake.
“I mean, I’m sure it was sophisticated and chic once upon a time, but, um ... it’s not really the style anymore. I may not want this marriage, but I’d at least like to feel comfortable enough to make a good impression. I’m sorry, Allegra.”
She puts the dress back into a suit bag and mutters under her breath something about it being good enough for her grandmother.
