Page 42 of Where Wild Hearts Dance (Dark Hearts #2)

C ontessa

“You and Bernadi ?” Bambi is standing next to me, having followed me into the restroom, with her jaw on the floor and a particularly judgmental scowl on her face. “I thought you hated him.”

I run a finger under my eyes wiping away some of the smudged mascara and apply another slick of gloss. “I did.”

“And now?”

I glance sideways at her, unable to contain a grin. “I don’t anymore.”

She turns around and leans back against the vanity, folding her arms. “I don’t ever want to be interested in men,” she huffs, pouting. “The whole thing looks woefully confusing.”

“Well, yeah…” I snap my purse closed. “It can be. But it’s worth it.”

I rinse my hands under the faucet.

“Hopefully Sera will stay single so I don’t have to die alone.”

A laugh bursts out of me as I dry off with a towel. “That’s morbid. Besides, give it a couple years and I guarantee you’ll feel differently.”

She pushes off the vanity to follow me out. “I highly doubt that.”

When we re-enter the function room, the dancing is in full-swing. Trilby seems to be in the middle of it all, twirling circles in her beautiful gown, her train fastened into a bustle at her waist. Sera is dancing beside her and her enormous smile makes me smile. All four girls under one roof, celebrating our older sister—I didn’t think it would make me feel as happy as it does. Though, of course, a certain bronze-eyed consigliere might also be to thank for my deliriously happy state.

“Who’s Papa talking to?”

I look across the room to see who Bambi’s referring to. “Um, that’s Nicolò’s mother,” I reply, recognizing the tall, lithe figure and black, softly curled hair. She’s a beautiful woman.

“They were talking earlier too,” Bambi says, and there’s a cool edge to her tone.

I put a hand on her arm to reassure her. “I think they get along. It’s nice that he can talk to someone other than Aunt Allegra. ”

Bambi turns to me with a frown. “He has other friends.”

I take a breath and shrug. “I know it’s painful, Bambi. But Mama has been gone five years. I don’t think we should stand in the way of Papa finding happiness again. Besides, their friendship might be completely innocent—we don’t know.”

My gaze is drawn to Benito as though magnets have been sewn into my eyes. He’s standing at the far end of the room, watching me with something indecipherable in his darkened expression. It sends a bolt of fire traveling down my core only to rest, sizzling, between my legs.

I’m about to leave my little sister pouting beside a large planter when shadows move swiftly in my peripheral vision and a voice cries out from the corner of the room.

“ DOWN!”

Screams ring out everywhere.

The pop, pop, pop of gunfire slams into my ears.

Something large and heavy knocks me to the floor and covers me completely.

More cries of, “ Get down! Down!” chorus through the air, cut only by the whistle of bullets overhead.

Through the bedlam I think I can hear Sera, and my only thought is, she’s alive. If I can hear her scream, she’s alive.

“Augie!” A male voice yells. “Augie, that way…”

Another one calls out. “Cristiano! ”

The form on top of me shifts and a loud pop sounds close to my head, almost deafening me.

Oh God. I’m going to die .

“Don’t fucking move…” Benito’s voice carries above my head and my heart crawls to a stop at the sound of his voice. He’s alive.

Through the ringing in my ears I hear more shouts, more commands, the helpless cries of terrified women.

Trilby…

I try to lift my head but the weight above me is pinning me down. My breasts are flattened against the cold floor and my cheek is pressed painfully into the tile.

The gunshots recede but the crying doesn’t.

When the weight shifts a little I peel my cheek off the floor and look up. Benito’s hand is pressed into the floor above my head, the rest of his length pinning me to the ground. I crane my neck further and see his other arm outstretched. The pulsing veins in his taut muscles lead me to his hand. I follow the aim of his gun and freeze in terror.

Cristiano, Augie and Nicolò are upright, their arms outstretched, guns pointing at three men I’ve never seen before. The looks on the strangers’ faces are menacing, like they’ve waited their whole lives for this moment, and that makes my insides crumble. But then, Cristiano and his men stand inches above them, with everything of value to them scattered about on the floor.

Cristiano, still wearing his tuxedo with a crisp white shirt, his bowtie falling to the side, has his pistol pointed unwaveringly at what appears to be the leader of the other men. His face is unreadable, but his eyes, dark and calculating, never stray from the man across from him.

Augie’s jacket has been discarded and shirt sleeves rolled up revealing thick, corded muscles primed for standoff.

Nicolò looks bored, his raised arm and cocked brow the only parts of his body seemingly engaged with the scene in front of him.

One of the other men draws his lips into a sneer. “I almost forgot. Congratulations.” He nods toward the floor and I follow his gaze to a pool of white. Trilby . The urge to run to my sister instantly eats up my insides but I know Benito won’t let me move. Her body is shaking beneath that of another man who is shielding her from the gunfire while Cristiano protects the entire family. I can’t see who it is.

When her new husband speaks, his voice is thin, icy, loaded with the kind of hatred only reserved for the devil himself. “I don’t recall inviting the Marchesi’s.”

I glance back at the three strange men, and true hatred, like nothing I’ve ever felt, rises up my torso.

The target of Cristiano’s aim is a cocky-looking man with a hook nose that seems too large for his face. Either side of him stand two younger versions, both equally nauseating in their arrogant stance and calculating smirks. The thinner one on the left has his gun aimed directly at Augie’s chest. The one on the right, a broad-shouldered man with a rough jaw, has his eyes locked and gun trained on Nicolò.

Silence hangs between them like a thick fog. Only the faint echo of strained breaths and leaked sobs taints the edges of their standoff. The sound of one of their voices tightens my chest like a wound spring and a small voice in the back of my head asks, “Is that the same voice my mama heard?”

“No invitation was necessary, Cristiano. We were coming whether we were invited or not. And the perimeter was wide open.”

The three Di Santos standing don’t move a muscle, though I know this is news to them.

“The place was surrounded,” Cristiano grits out. “How many have you killed?”

Augie cocks the trigger on his gun. They were his men surrounding the hotel estate.

“Lost count.” The man in the middle sneers.

A helpless wail rises from the floor. Guests are strewn everywhere, face down on the cold tile.

Cristiano’s chest expands while Benito’s hold on me tightens. “So, to what do we owe this pleasure?”

“You owe us our fucking money.” Spittle flies from the middle guy’s mouth, landing on the floor by Cristiano’s wedding shoes. “That shipment would’ve made us three million and you fucked it over. For what? Just to piss us off?”

Benito’s breathing is alarmingly steady.

“You were on our streets,” Cristiano replies. “We had every right to bust you. We re-drew territories after Newark and you crossed the boundaries.”

“No— you re-drew territories. We never agreed to them.”

“That part of the city was ALWAYS OURS.” Cristiano’s roar ricochets around the walls, making my ears ring.

I feel Benito’s thighs tense beside me, as though he’s getting ready to pounce.

“You’re confronting a family that’s been running this city longer than you’ve been alive.” Augie takes over since Cristiano looks like the next sound out of his mouth might be nuclear warfare itself.

“I don’t doubt that, Zanotti. You certainly look like you’re older than the hills and it’s about time we had a new style of leadership in this city.”

Nicolò coughs out a bitter laugh. “Like you’d know what that looks like, Lorenzo. You and your brothers are barely out of diapers.”

The middle guy—Lorenzo—flexes his fingers around his gun, glee dancing on his thin lips. I hold my breath, knowing the smallest twitch could result in many of us being killed.

“Give us Manhattan and we’ll leave right now, no more bodies,” the eldest Marchesi drawls.

“Not happening,” Nicolò almost chuckles. “Santa only gives presents to the nice kids.”

Lorenzo’s top lip curls. “I wasn’t asking you, asshole . ”

Cristiano’s response starts as a low rumble, the words initially difficult to make out, but they become way clearer with context. “You murdered Gio, my late father’s best capo. Then you took my brother’s driver, while my wife was in the back seat of the fucking car.” His jaw is steady but I’ve never seen a body so tense it could slice through an iceberg. “You took our informant, skinned him alive and left his corpse to weep blood all over the Connecticut River. You took our underworld above ground you fucking imbecile .”

The air thickens with bated breaths.

“ That’s why we took Newark,” Cristiano says, with a sharp tip of his head. “Because you can’t be fucking trusted with it.”

“Nice speech,” Lorenzo grits out. “Shame it isn’t going to save you and your new family.”

Everything happens slowly but then again, too quickly for me to keep up.

“Fuck this,” Benito mutters under his breath. Then, before I realize what he’s doing, he’s pressing a hand into my back. “Stay down,” he growls.

One of the guns swings toward him as he straightens up, but Benito’s too fast. His bullet flies through the air and pierces the chest of the Marchesi closest to us.

The man falls to the ground, then hell descends.

For the second time today, a gun spins toward me—it has slipped from Benito’s victim’s grip—and this time my shaking hands don’t hesitate to reach out and grab it. The threat in the room now is far worse than the threat of Federico. Fed wouldn’t have killed me, but these guys would relish it.

In the corner of my eye, Bambi flies toward me, crouching behind my back as I extend my arms. I rise to my knees and lift one leg so I have a foot on the ground.

Cristiano fires a bullet toward his target but Lorenzo is too fast and ducks out of the way. Another bullet sails past Cristiano and screams ring out from the edge of the room. Augie’s aim catches the other brother on the shoulder, then more bullets rain into the room from the terrace.

There’s more of them?

My heart hitches as Benito runs to the doors, arms outstretched, right into the middle of the chaos.

My instinct to turn my head to the side is strong but I have as much blood in this game as he does, so I keep my focus, and the borrowed pistol, trained on the doors.

More bullets fall like snowflakes through the terrace doors and Benito ducks them like it’s a dance he’s been performing since kindergarten. My heart expands like a balloon when I remember that he has been doing this shit since he was a kid.

Bambi screams in my ear and grabs my dress in her small fists. “Tess, we gotta go. Tess, come on .”

“I’m not leaving him,” I say firmly.

“What?” Her voice is breathy with terror.

“I’m not leaving Benito.”

Cristiano has thrown his gun to one side and is head-to-head with Lorenzo, their hands around each other’s throats. It’s clear from their drawn faces and whitened knuckles, this conflict goes back years .

Benito is firing bullets onto the terrace with Nicolò at his back, the remaining Marchesi brother is running, his gun held aloft defensively.

Then a scream drags everyone’s attention back to the hustle in the center of the room.

Lorenzo Marchesi has a gun driven into Cristiano’s jaw, his finger poised on the trigger, an eerily satisfied smirk on the summit of his lips.

“No…” Trilby’s whisper shakes the room.

Benito spins around, having terminated whatever risk existed on the terrace, and his jaw falls open.

The room is deathly silent—everyone awaiting the click of the Marchesi’s trigger, ending the life of his rival don, my sister’s new husband.

I feel Benito’s gaze land on me and the gun in my hands feels heavy and lethal. I have it aimed right at Lorenzo’s head. The implication in my boyfriend’s eyes is unequivocal. I have the aim. I don’t need to move. I could kill. All I need to do is pull the trigger.

The gun shakes as I extend my finger then press it gently into the thin, curved strip of metal. My head feels light, as though I haven’t taken a breath in days . I’ve never fired a gun in my life. And the one time I have the opportunity, a man associated with my mama’s murder just happens to be the target. It couldn’t be more serendipitous. Yet, I can’t quite go all the way.

My eyes flick to Benito. His gaze is warm and filled with love and… something else. Faith. He believes in me. He believes I can do this.

Lorenzo doesn’t seem to know I’m aiming his brother’s gun at his head, so I have the upper hand.

Then, footsteps, quick and firm, arrive in the doorway to the terrace.

In a blind panic, I draw my finger toward me. The force of the bullet flying from its chamber knocks me onto the floor. Firing a gun is fucking harder than it looks.

Lorenzo squeals in pain and another pop rings through the air.

Then another.

All I can think is my panic has set off a chain reaction and now we’re all going to die.

Bambi’s arm curls around my neck, muffling at least some of the shouts and screams.

In mere seconds, everything stops.

“Holy crap.” Bambi’s gasp of disbelief makes me unfurl from her embrace and twist to face the room. My gaze immediately searches for Benito. When it finds him, his gaze is still on me, as though he never looked away.

Terrified, I pan my focus to Cristiano. Relief floods through my body when I see he’s still standing. And unharmed.

Lorenzo is lying at his feet, blood running from his skull.

Vomit crawls up my esophagus. I did that to him. I killed him .

In a second, and somehow without me even seeing him move, Benito has me in his arms. “It wasn’t you,” he says rocking me into his chest.

“I-I don’t understand.”

Benito presses his mouth to my hair. “You got him in the ribs. It knocked him off balance. You did good, baby.”

Silent tears stream from my wide-open eyes.

I hear voices, distantly.

Luca’s down.

Matteo ran.

Where?

Out the gates.

Gone.

Motherfucker.

“Doesn’t matter.” Cristiano’s voice cuts through the murmurings, with earth-shattering heat. “Lorenzo Marchesi is fucking dead.”

I somehow focus my gaze enough to watch Cristiano kick the corpse laying at his feet. Then he lifts his head and turns toward the door.

It’s only then I realize another stranger has entered the room. He doesn’t seem to be a Marchesi, since the gun at his side is still cocked and primed to shoot again if he has to. But neither is he a Di Santo. And I can also tell from his attire—dark jeans, black tee and leather jacket—he’s definitely not a wedding guest.

“You gonna introduce yourself?” Cristiano barks.

Everyone’s gaze coasts toward the man whose frame is filling the doorway. So far, he’s nothing but a lethal silhouette with a sawn-off shotgun adorning his right hand.

Then, from the floor where she lays sheltered by a hulking body, Trilby makes a sound like a dying animal. Nicolò rushes over and pulls the dead weight from my sister’s body. Then he shouts out two words. Two words that change everything.

“Beppe’s dead.”