Page 39 of Where Wild Hearts Dance
“Contessa…” It’s Bernadi.
“Goaway.”
“Just give me one minute, then I’ll stay out of your way… for good.”
I stand facing the door but rooted to the spot. I feel a strange pull like I want to yank the door open and see his face, but I can also feel the touch of Federico’s fingers between my thighs—wanted, yet unwanted at the same time—and the resentment burns inside my chest.
“Then you’ll leave me alone?” I glance at my phone.Nine minutes away.
“I promise.”
My feet feel like lead weights as I walk to the door. I flick the lock, take a deep breath and open it. Bernadi has an arm leaned up against the door frame and his chest alone blocks out all the light from the landing. I dare not look up into his eyes so I skirt around them, taking in the taut shape of his mouth, the normally full lips pulled into an anguished line. His scar seems more prominent in shadow, dancing with each grind of his jaw.
He's completely drenched and my gaze drops to where water pools at his feet.
“What?” I’m aiming for a tone with bite but it sounds more weary than anything.
“Can I come in?” His deep timbre reaches into the room and fills it.
I turn my back to him and walk to the center of the room. The door closes behind me with a soft click.
“You’re right, Contessa. I am the reason the Falconis left.”
A long, exhausted breath rolls out of my lungs.
“But I didn’tdrivethem away. They didn’tflee. I sent them away for their own good.”
I shake my head. “What does that even mean?”
Silence crawls around the walls uncomfortably.
“Enzo Falconi stole from us.”
“That’s not true.” I can’t keep the irritation out of my voice. “He missed one lease payment.”
“That’s probably what he told his son.”
I turn around to see Bernadi pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed. I feel safer looking at him when he isn’t looking back. If he wasn’t such an asshole, he’d be beautiful. His whole frame looks to be carved from granite—all lines and labyrinthine angles. His jacket has been discarded, the sleeves of his button-up are rolled to the elbows and delicate black lines and shapes trip in the light as his muscles tense. I follow them to the curve of his wrist and the thick, inked fingers. The skin is calloused, the nails sharp and neatly trimmed—not jagged and filled with dried blood as I’d expect from a gangster.
I feel lightheaded as I whisper, “What did he steal?”
Bernadi sighs and drops his hand. Before I can look away, his lids pop open and his eyes catch mine. A strange heat floods my chest.
“He stole systematically from us over two years, to the tune of sixteen million dollars.”
I gasp and fall a little deeper into the iron grip of his gaze.
“We gave him breaks on fuel, power, equipment; wefunneled contracts away from other businesses for him. We thought he delivered the best. It was only after he left we discovered the extent of his neglect. There were firms his people hadn’t visited in months. They were too busy vacationing in the Florida Keys and driving around in brand new Maserati’s.”
I hang disbelievingly on to his words.
“He skimmed everything he owed us and we gave him repeated warnings. When he started gambling our money, we broke his fingers.”
A faint memory slides across my lids. I was sitting in the Falconis’ kitchen and Fed was helping me with my math project. I remember his papa entering the kitchen with an enormous bandage wrapped around his hand. When Fed asked about it, Mr. Falconi blamed it on some heavy equipment falling on him in the warehouse. At the time I found it odd that whatever landed on him only got his hand, but I didn’t give it any further thought.
“Finally, after failing to pay the lease for three months, we went to the house.”
Threemonths? Federico said it was only one. But if what Bernadi is saying is correct, there was clearly a lot Fed didn’t know.
