Page 25 of Where Dark Hearts Devour
I stop in the middle of the room and shiver. His gaze somehow makes me feel naked. “Mr. Di Santo, would you like something to drink?”
“Yes, I would.” His voice sounds as gravelly as my mind feels foggy.
I hold in a lungful of air, hoping for strength. “What can I get you?”
“Whiskey, please. No ice.”
I nod and turn slowly, trying not to run out of the room the way I want to.
Then his words halt me. “Actually, I will take ice.”
I twist to see him yanking at his collar, his jaw rigid with tension.
“Thanks.”
Biting my bottom lip, I walk out of the room. It’s only when I reach an empty kitchen that I release a hot, wretched breath.
My brain claws around for some explanation as to why I’m feeling so unhinged all of a sudden. I’m about to marry adon. And not just any don—the downright ruthless head of the Di Santo family, the most notorious crime family for miles. A don whose brother knows my secrets—that I get drunk in backstreet bars and that I don’t want this marriage at all. Those are reasons enough for why I can barely think straight.
I reach for one of our “best” crystal tumblers and place it on the counter, staring at it for several seconds. We never use the “best” glassware for anything—what are we saving it for? For this? For a man my family feels is above us in some way? I’m suddenly infused with a sense of injustice. What makes Cristiano Di Santo more deserving of our “best” glassware than we are?
No one looks up as I enter the room.
I place his whiskey gently on a coaster and take three steps backward. The men continue their deep discussion as if I’m not there.
Cristiano’s gaze glides from Papa directly to me, and he reaches for his drink. Without glancing at the vessel, he lifts it to his lips and takes a sip.
It’s Papa’s gasp that turns everyone else’s head. “What th?—?”
Papa’s manager snorts and then quickly tries to cover it up.
“Oh, um ...” Papa gently wraps his fingers around the mug I’ve served Cristiano’s whiskey in. “I’m so sorry. Let me ... um ...”
Cristiano refuses to let go of the mug.
Our eyes are fixed on each other.
A rumbling beside him begins to infiltrate my consciousness until Papa’s voice breaks out in a growl. “TRILBY!”
I pan an innocent glance his way. “Yes, Papa?”
“Get rid of it and serve Mr. Di Santo’s drink in a proper glass. Now.”
“No.” Cristiano sets his hand firmly on the top of the mug that has a giant pair of naked boobs and the words “What would Dolly do?” printed shamelessly across it.
Tess bought the mug for my eighteenth birthday, and no matter how often Allegra tuts and purses her lips, I refuse to throw it out.
His eyes never leave mine, but something behind them dances. “It’s fine. It doesn’t matter what the poison comes in.” A corner of his lips lifts before his expression settles into something else. Something deadly and accompanied by a low, sinful voice and eyes that burrow beneath my skin. “As long as itcomes.”
Blood rushes like an avalanche up my chest, flooding my collarbone, my neck, my entire face.
Cristiano pans his gaze back to Papa’s, effectively dismissing me.
I turn on wobbly legs and walk back to the kitchen, wondering—not for the first time since I met him—what the hell just possessed me and why such simple, innocent words from the mouth of my future brother-in-law make me feel like I’ve just been doused in lava.
Cristiano
I turn back to the conversation and try to curb my flaring nostrils.
