Page 17

B enito

The average person might wonder why a bell is needed above the door of a twenty square foot barbershop with a window that gives an unobscured view of the road. But the average person probably doesn’t expect there to be a darkened office out back filled with safety deposit boxes, loaded firearms and a small round table that plays host to some of the less salubrious conversations this city has seen.

My height makes it difficult to avoid shop door bells so I have to duck to avoid the tinny ring. The manager stops midway through a beard trim and opens his arms.

“Signor Bernadi… Bello vederti .”

I let him kiss me on each cheek before nodding toward his client .

“Ciao Gaspare. It’s good to see you too. Rasatura bagnata ? When you’ve finished up with this gentleman, of course.” Sure, I had a different business opportunity in mind when I opened this place, but that’s no reason not to build a decent client base for this little outfit. No paying customer should have their service cut short, not even for me.

“ Si, si. Assolutamente . Please, take a seat.”

There are three barber chairs in the shop and each one is full, along with most of the waiting area seats. I recognize most of the men here—they’re each involved in Di Santo business in some shape or form. And they’ve each been trained to only speak to me if I speak to them first. I never intended to become that kind of boss, especially since I’m not even a capo —I’m an advisor —but my reputation for being a fast aim and taking zero shit from anyone must have preceded me.

Slowly, conversation returns to a semi-normal pace and volume but the topics are tame. Normally the walls are ringing with banter. I don’t doubt they’re watching their words because I’m in the room.

I scroll through my emails until I’ve read everything, then glance sideways out the window. The dance studio is lit from inside but, as always, a thin veil of netting conceals anything beyond the window from the eyes of passersby. All I can see are shadows moving about.

A group of girls leaves the studio. My breath hitches as I scan them in search of a familiar, dark-haired brat. She’s due to leave about now, which is a large part of the reason I’m sitting in this chair right opposite, but there’s no sign of her.

After her little confession at Cristiano’s and her stubborn refusal to see that her life is worth anything, I’m more determined than ever to keep a close eye on Contessa Castellano. She’s slipped through the net too many times. She cares more about other people than she does herself, and it makes me so furious I can barely speak.

I’m about to call Nicolò and order him to track her down when a truck pulls up a few yards along from the dance studio.

It looks like it’s delivering groceries to the store two doors down, but that’s not what grabs my attention. Somehow, the position of the truck is reflecting light into the studio, making the netting almost transparent. There’s one person left in the empty space. One person with legs that go on for days, dark hair tied in a severe knot at her crown, and a skin-colored latex outfit that shows every lethal curve and line.

My throat feels suddenly dry so I get up to grab a glass of water, then realize every single punter in the shop is staring at the studio, watching the very same thing I was half a second ago: Contessa Castellano.

I have an inexplicable urge to slit the throat of every one of them.

Even Gaspare.

I push down the urge and splash water haphazardly into 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 more damage 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 .