Page 6

C ontessa

Six months later

I smile triumphantly as the studio comes into view. I took a different route this morning. I’ve gotten used to the guy who follows me, but some days I don’t desire the company, and I also kind of like outwitting him.

I still haven’t seen his face. He always keeps enough of a distance that I can’t make out any defining characteristics, other than that he’s maybe six feet tall and skinny.

Some might say three years is a long time to be followed by a stranger but he’s never come too close or given me a grave reason to fear him. There are just some days I would like a little privacy on my walk to the studio.

My eyes narrow as I get closer because something about the street seems different. I’m almost opposite the studio, standing outside what used to be an empty retail unit. It isn’t empty anymore. It’s a barbershop. And it’s already buzzing at eleven a.m.

I pause for a few seconds. It’s nice to see a little more life on this street, and having more people around when I come and go might make it feel safer. Before crossing the road, I turn my head to check for traffic—it would be a damn shame to survive a stalker for three years only to get run over by a bus.

There are no vehicles heading my way, but a tall, thin figure catches the corner of my eye, making my stomach drop. Before I have a chance to stop and verify that it is indeed my stalker, I hit a wall.

I spin around and instantly forget the skinny man strolling toward me from about two hundred yards behind, because it isn’t a wall I just walked into, it is something with harsher edges and potentially even less character.

Damn Benito Bernadi .

It was only a few months ago I stood on Cristiano’s terrace and watched Bernadi carry my little sister out to the waiting car—the day I resolved to stay well away from this man—so I’m beyond annoyed that he’s ruined my run of avoidance.

I reluctantly lift my lids and glide a bored gaze up to his. “You did that on purpose. ”

He looks down at me as though he doesn’t care a dime what I think he just did.

“You weren’t standing there a second ago,” I continue, accusingly. “You stepped in front of me.”

His left brow twitches. “You weren’t standing in that spot on the sidewalk a second ago. You stepped in front of me .” He strokes a thumb across his bottom lip. “ And you were looking the other way.”

Something heats up inside my chest so fast I feel like a pot about to boil over. How is it possible a person can get me so riled up in just a few breaths?

My lip curls into a sneer. “What are you doing here, anyway? Come to shut down another business?”

Just a year ago I wouldn’t have dreamed of speaking to any man in this way, let alone the consigliere to New York’s ruling family. But now that my sister is the most important person in the world to the city’s don—who just happens to be Bernadi’s boss—I know I can get away with it.

His brows draw together a fraction—perhaps he doesn’t get my reference to the fact he closed down the Falconis, the reason I will always despise him—and he slowly shakes his head. “I came to open one, actually.”

Italian opera music and the deep baritone of male banter draws my gaze to the right. Every chair inside the barbershop has been filled and the waiting seats are spilling over with wrinkled suits, errant stubble and cigar-ravaged laughter.

I can’t conceal my grimace. “This place is yours ? ”

He shrugs and a conceited smile dances across his lips. “Sure.”

Footsteps approaching on the sidewalk draw my attention from the window. I roll my eyes, about to walk past Bernadi, when his arm whips out to the side and a loud pop makes my ears ring and my head spin.

The force of the gunshot makes me stumble into the road but Bernadi’s hand wraps around my arm, keeping me from falling.

The Italian banter stops instantly and footsteps emerge from inside the barbershop. It takes a few seconds to catch my breath before I can right myself and turn my gaze to the ground.

And there he is.

My stalker.

Long, thin, younger than I thought. Eyes wide open, whites gleaming. Hands splayed at a contorted angle. Blood running from his open mouth.

Then the world carousels and my legs give out.

I open my eyes stiffly and look up at a mirrored ceiling decorated with branding from the fifties. It’s clear from my reflection that I've been deposited on a reclined chair in the barbershop and it looks like everything around me is business as usual.

How utterly embarrassing .

My first thought as I come round is, “This chair is so comfortable I could get used to it. ”

I wiggle a little, then remember why I’m lying here, then a combination of fear, disgust and relief mingle at the base of my throat. Bernadi just shot a guy dead on the street, right in front of me. The audacity! Wait until I tell Cristiano about this. Maybe he’ll fire Bernadi. Better yet, maybe he’ll send Bernadi off to the west coast, never to be seen again.

My thoughts are quickly drowned out when the back of the chair rises slowly upright and a face moves into my field of view, and it’s one I’ve hated for exactly three years, six months and eight days.

“What the fuck thinking were you?” I spit.

His lip curls up at one corner. “Have some of this, then try again.”

I frown and drop my gaze to the glass of water he’s holding out. “Arsenic?” I deadpan.

His face is serious. “One hundred per cent.”

I end up gulping half the glass.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” I repeat.

He straightens and puts his hands to the back of his head. Then he barks out a short laugh. It sounds like relief.

“Fuck me, Contessa. I would have given you a warning if I’d known you were going to pass out.”

“Given me a warning for what? That you were about to shoot a passerby in the neck? You were about to murder a civilian for no reason at all?”

Not only am I still lightheaded from the shock of seeing a dead body at my feet, I am furious Bernadi did that to my innocent stalker .

He narrows his eyes. “First of all, I didn’t shoot him in the neck. I would never shoot someone in the neck. I shot him in the skull.”

He shrugs like it was the kind of move that in school would’ve got him a half hour detention.

“Second, what do you mean ‘civilian’? This is New York, not the front line.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” I mumble, knowing with some irritation he heard me clearly.

He cocks his head and looks genuinely perplexed. “Anyway…” It’s hard to tell with his face being so damn chiseled but I’m detecting an affronted scowl. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

“You, um, what ?” I tip an ear in his direction. “You thought I’d be pleased you just shot someone to death two feet to my right, for no apparent reason? Are you insane?”

I pause for less than two seconds. “Actually, don’t answer that.”

In a beat I like the barber chair a lot less than I did a few minutes ago. Bernadi plants his hands either side of me on each arm rest and brings his face close to mine. In a bid to not stare at the ragged scar down the left side of his face I focus on his eyes—dark olive pools dancing with annoyance. They’re almost disarming.

“What were you doing?” I say in a scheming whisper. “Showing off?”

“Yeah.” His voice is playful. “Flowers and chocolates don’t do the trick anymore. Seems only a bullet can get a girl’s attention these days. ”

The longer he stares at me, the shorter my breaths become. I can feel sweat surfacing through my pores. I’m protected against this man but somehow he still manages to make me feel afraid.

He pushes his weight off the chair and folds his arms across his chest. I notice he’s removed his jacket and his sleeves are rolled up. Ink upon ink upon ink. He doesn’t look like a law-literate advisor to me; he looks like a mobster . I need to swallow.

His jaw works from side to side. “He was stalking you.”

I tip my chin slightly. “Yes, I know.”

He lowers his glare. “You know ? Did you know he’s been stalking you for six months?”

I fold my own arms in front of my chest, noticing his gaze dip then quickly return to my face. “Try three years , actually.”

His head ticks to one side like he must have misheard or something, but he doesn’t respond.

“He was harmless,” I say with a sigh. “Sure, he would hang out in the shadows and follow me when it got dark?—”

Bernadi flings a hand toward the window and his voice pitches. “He was following you today and it’s broad daylight .”

“Well, yeah. I guess he’s become a bit more bold the last few months?—”

“Three years ?” Bernadi runs a distractingly large hand through his thick, black hair. “Why didn’t you tell someone? Your father? Cristiano? ”

I wriggle off the seat in the manner of a toddler who can’t reach the floor, and stand, wobbling only slightly. Then I glare at him.

“Where have you been, Bernadi? You know what my family has been through. First, my mama’s murder, then my sister’s engagement to that trigger-happy, child-trafficking freak . And the mess Papa had to unwind once Savero was gone…” I throw a glance to the window and back. “That guy out there was harmless. What would have been the point in making my aunt and Papa worry when they really could do with a break?”

He seems to recoil slightly without moving a muscle. “What about your safety, Contessa? Your future.”

That makes me laugh. “Like you care about anyone’s future.”

His brow furrows in confusion but I’m not going to waste my time educating him on what exactly has formed my immovable view of his outlook on life. “I have a dance class to get to.”

I’m about to turn when his fingers sear into my upper arm.

“Don’t I at least get a thank you?”

The look of confusion has slid from his face and it’s been replaced by a devious glint in his eye. Well, I don’t care how bordering-on-handsome that glint makes him look, I’m not entertaining him a second longer.

“For what? Shooting a guy in the head or introducing me to perhaps the comfiest chair known to man?” I punctuate with a sweet smile .

He ignores my question. “Like it or not, Contessa. I probably just saved you.”

A thread of dark hatred wraps itself around my spine and lowers my voice to the level of vindictive. “Well, in future, don’t bother, Bernadi. I don’t need saving. Least of all from you.”

Then I walk straight out of the barbershop to the sound of a razor being rinsed, a comb tapping against a metal dish and a couple jaws dropping.