Page 5 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream (Dark Hearts #3)

A ndrew

The second the door locks and I’m securely inside my suite, I roll up a leg of my pants and unstrap the pistol from my calf.

I never go anywhere without it but a place like this doesn’t call for showiness, and from what I’ve gathered so far, Serafina Castellano is already jumpy about her mafia connections, so I don’t want to scare her off by alerting her to my own.

I need to keep her sweet. I need to gain her trust. And I need to extract all the information I can before I make my move on the Di Santo’s.

So far, this little project of mine has gone far better than I’d expected.

First, I couldn’t have created a better meet cute.

I’d only just stepped foot in the lobby and she slid into my arms, all bashful, embarrassed and seemingly willing to do anything to create a good impression.

I didn’t have to turn on any charm or weave a colorful tale to get her attention.

I had it—and her warm, soft body—in the palms of both hands.

She wasn’t what I’d expected though. At all.

The only reason I knew she was the Castellano sister I’d be siphoning information out of for the next two weeks, was the name badge on her blouse.

Serafina has stayed largely out of the limelight so photographs haven’t been easy to come by.

I assumed she’d have the same dark Italian features and long, lithe figure as the Castellano sisters I have managed to find pictures of.

That’s partly what made this project seem easy.

The typical Italian rich girl aesthetic isn’t my thing—there was zero risk I’d be attracted to Serafina Castellano, which would make this task quick, simple and easy to detach from.

But when I realised the girl with pale skin, auburn hair, freckles and soft curves that rippled out for days was to be the subject of my investigation, I have to admit, a thread of apprehension wound through my chest.

For a start, she’s a closed book. Despite her telling me about her sisters just now, I can tell she’s perfected the art of just giving enough to keep the hotel guests interested, but years of watching people and figuring out their next moves have honed my instincts.

She’s hiding an entirely different person behind those cobalt blue eyes and my need to know everything and control everything is not sitting pretty with that.

I need to make sure my intrigue doesn’t lead me astray .

Second, her little hobby means a lot more to me than she could ever imagine.

A long time ago, years after my mother died, I was cared for by someone who consulted the planets on a daily basis.

At first I thought she was nuts, but when she showed me her analysis of the heavens and how it mirrored my life up to that point, I softened.

I wouldn’t say I live my life by that stuff but I don’t dismiss it anymore.

That was the first time in my life someone actually looked out for me, so while Serafina might think her little ‘hobby’ is silly, she has no idea how it filled me with warmth.

And third, she’s distracting .

She’s voluptuous—just the way I like my women.

And how she carries herself… my God. Most girls with curves like that try to hide them away or hunch their spine in a bid to disappear.

Not this one. She walks tall—or as tall someone who can’t be more than five foot four can—with her shoulders back and her head high, and I like that.

Her lips are full too and fuck if I can’t get the image of them wrapped round my cock out of my head.

And the way she says ‘ sir .’ With a light break in her voice, her mouth curled up in one corner revealing the sweetest dimple in her cheek.

Christ . I had to nip that in the bud quick, otherwise I’m going to have to let out my pants for the duration of my stay.

Even without the ‘sir,’ my insides groan at the prospect of having to keep my hands shoved deep in my pockets and my one-liners hidden behind buttoned lips. I’m not used to holding back where women are concerned.

I wrap a hand round the back of my neck and knead the tight muscles. I thought the next two weeks were going to be easy, but I have a feeling they might just be the hardest weeks of my life.

The restaurant is busy when I head down for breakfast, and the wait staff, while doing their utmost to hide it, look mildly flustered. I seat myself in a corner, my back to the wall, so I can observe my surroundings. I unbutton my jacket and loosen my cuffs because I may be here a while.

Luckily, I only need to wait five minutes before the reason for my stay walks out of the kitchen with a full plate of food.

Her hips sway as she sashays to a table, lowers the plate and talks to the guest. It looks as though she’s apologizing to him, and for some reason, I feel as though someone has just tunnelled inside me and squeezed a nerve.

When she rests a hand on the guest’s shoulder, my spine hardens and doesn’t let up until she’s walked away.

My gaze lingers on the man, inexplicable hatred coiling up my backbone.

My stare is only broken when a soft voice sounds beside me.

“Good morning, Mr. Stone. What can I get for you today?”

My eyes move slowly in the direction of the voice until they land on Serafina Castellano and my chest fills out.

“Just a coffee for now, thank you.”

“Any particular kind?” she asks with a sweet smile that sends warmth traveling down my torso.

“Cappuccino would be great.”

She smiles again. “Of course.”

When she spins away I grab her wrist, and she turns toward me with eyes wide and lips parted.

I absently wonder if her reaction is caused by how inappropriate it may be for a guest to touch a staff member in this way, or if it’s caused by the same crack of lightning that I feel when my skin touches hers.

“And what would you like?” I murmur in a low voice.

“Um, sorry?” Her eyes widen a fraction further.

“I’m buying you coffee. What would you like?”

Her breaths shorten, making the pulse beneath my fingers thump harder, faster. “I’m really sorry, but I can’t stop right now. We’re short-staffed, and?—”

“I’m not asking you to stop. I’m asking what coffee you’d like.”

She wets her lips and I momentarily forget what I’ve asked her.

“Well, okay. A hazelnut latte?”

“Great.” I release her wrist. “Go get yourself one.”

“O-okay. Thank you.”

I have to divert my gaze to the fucking wall so it doesn’t snag on her ass as she walks away. That ass is going to kill me slowly over the next two weeks .

She returns a few minutes later and sets my cappuccino down on the table. “I haven’t had a chance to start your birth chart yet, but I have some time this evening…”

I rest my gaze on her, a large part of me enjoying how flustered she is. This happens a lot with women, but the novelty wore off a long time ago, or so I thought.

“Take your time,” I reply, allowing a slight smile to curl my mouth. “Did you get yourself a coffee?”

“I did.”

“Go drink it.” I wave her away good-naturedly and don’t miss the little exasperated shake of her head. Not only do I catch it, but I smile. Surprise makes my spine straighten and my chest fill with a strange liquid heat. People rarely make me smile these days, and I’d forgotten how much I like it.