Page 42 of Where Wild Hearts Dance
Even Gaspare.
I push down the urge and splash water haphazardlyinto a crystal tumbler before gulping it down, then I slam the tumbler to the table, just to break everyone’s trance. It works because the glass shatters, sending tiny diamond-like shards across the tile.
That draws eyes away from the window. The tension tightening the room doesn’t dissipate as Gaspare’s boy sets to work clearing up the broken glass. Each sweep of his brush only intensifies the discomfort.
I sit back down and return my gaze to the studio and the sight I’m met with takes my breath away. Contessa is dancing with such strength and grace I can’t look away. I’m no dance expert but I’m pretty sure she isn’t performing a ballet. Nor does it appear to be a street-style dance. It’s somewhere in between. It’s slow and flowing, dramatic, yet soft. But underlying it all is a fierceness that is indescribable.
Her arms float above her head like angel wings, her back arches into a bow, a leg rises up behind her. She spins and spins and drops and curls. She lowers to her hands and kicks her feet into the air, flipping upright with little effort as though she’s an Olympic gymnast, not a dancer. It’s dark, it’s wild, it’s easily the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I manage to drag my gaze from the window to Gaspare and he’s stopped what he’s doing. The entire shop has fallen silent—all eyes are back on Contessa. My blood heats like a fireball about to erupt.
“Avert your eyes,” I demand of the room, my growl hitting the walls.
All eyes cast downward to the floor. There’s a volcanic edge to my tone.
I pan back to the studio and watch, mesmerized, as she seamlessly twists and turns, controlling her body like a musician controls sound.
Like an unwanted intruder, the memory of Federico Falconi cowering on the landing of his father’s home casts a shadow over my view. I didn’t know anything about him, other than the fact he was the son of a cheat. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen when his family left. Just a boy. Yet he took the most important gift Contessa Castellano had to give, and all he had to do was ask once.
I find it hard to believe she wasn’t in love with him. Otherwise, how could it have been so easy? That thought alone fills me with the kind of hatred I usually reserve for the Savero’s of this world—despicable human beings who don’t even deserve that title. Yet, Federico Falconi was innocent. All he did was take Contessa’s virginity. So, why do I feel like I want to tear his fucking eyeballs out and crush them between my fingers?
A movement to my right drags my attention back to the room. One of the men has risen to his feet and walked to the window where he’s now resting a scrawny hand on the glass. He looks like he’s in a trance, unable to take his eyes off Contessa.
“Did you not fucking hear me?” I don’t recognize my own voice.
Gaspare coughs, trying to get this guy’s attention, but he’s somewhere else. My gaze drops to his pants and a film of red coats my eyelids. He’s so hard his dick is sticking out at a right angle, almost brushing the window. My fingers curl around the metal I hadn’t even realized I’d pulled out of my waistband, and without giving it a second thought, I aim the gun at the guy’s head and pull the trigger.
I stare ahead at my reflection in the mirror. It is now splattered with blood and particles of skull, all sliding down the glass. I lower my gaze to the body on the floor. He still has a fucking hard on. I aim the gun at his crotch and shoot again.
The dick falls limp and my sigh of satisfaction fills the otherwise silent shop. Then Gaspare coughs again, drawing my attention back to him. He gestures to the empty chair. Seems I just shot his current client.
Well, that’s one way to get speedier service.
I nod and get to my feet as he studies the shaving blade in his hand.
“Ne prenderò uno nuovo.”I’ll get a fresh one.
Slowly, the room fills with more chatter, and there I was thinking this could get awkward. At least no one’s looking out the window anymore.
I turn my head back to the road just in time to see the truck driving off, casting the studio in the veil of a net curtain once more. My stomach hollows out knowing what’s beyond that window while also knowing she’d show me again over her dead body. I flip the safety catch on my gun before I can do any moredamage because this feeling of sickness that just came over me is unusual. Unpredictable. Un-fucking-agreeable.
I sigh heavily and turn to face my reflection in the mirror. Then the truth slaps me square in the face.
I think I might have a problem.
Contessa
Thirty minutes earlier
“You sure you don’t want to come for pizza?” The rest of the girls are already on the street but Paige pops her head around the door.
“I’m sure, really. I just want to get this sequence right.” And also, I’m pretty certain my movements will be tracked by one of Bernadi’s men and there’s nothing like a dark faceless shadow following one around to make one look conspicuous.
Paige looks over her shoulder and seeing the coast is clear she steps back inside the room. She dips her chin and gives me a seriouslook with a lowered voice.
“You know why he’s hard on you, right?” My thoughts are drawn from one overbearing man to another: Antonio.
I turn back to my reflection in the mirror and instantly my focus is drawn to not-straight-enough legs, not-relaxed-enough shoulders, not-loose-enough limbs.
