Dark Heart (Dark Heart 1)

Once Elise and I step fully into the stairs room, I look up and see how high the ceiling is. I’m looking at the way the stairs curl like the inside of a shell when I hear Elise’s quiet gasp. I follow her gaze to the room’s right wall, where, between two massive, red-curtained windows hangs a portrait that makes my heart sink.

There he is. Roberto Arnoldi.

I used to watch him read the Wall Street Journal while my father polished his shoes. I asked Dad once why he did it instead of Chris, the high school boy he’d hired to do such things. Dad said, “Respect, Luca. When a powerful man is your patron, respect is part of what you give him.”

My dad talked about Roberto Arnoldi like he was some kind of legend. I sort of understood what he did, but when I was a kid, I thought of him more like a movie star—like Tom Cruise. He had a driver and wore crisp, clean suits that smelled like tobacco and money.

After the store flooded, it was Gabe Russo, an Arnoldi cousin, who became my father’s point of contact for a year or so.

When Mom got sick and my dad defaulted on his monthly payment, Russo gave him six months off—with sixty-six percent interest. Six-six-six, I remember raging to Alesso when I found out. I was thirteen then, and sort of crazy from the shit with Mom. Then Dad just lost his hold on things. He kept saying how he’d have to close his doors, how we’d be moving to Mill Street. That was when he decided he didn’t give a fuck if we knew he was still a drunk.

Now I stare at the painting of the mob don and his flawless family. I swallow, and for a second my eyes ache as I absorb that feeling I have sometimes—that I’m a traitor.

I didn’t realize how right I was when I told Elise this place isn’t for me. Yet, here I am—dressed up like a fraud, with Elise on my arm as if I’ve earned the right to her heart.

“Luca,” she says, and I look at her.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. For sure,” I lie.

We start slowly up the winding staircase. Elise looks up before I do and murmurs, “Look up, Luca.”

The stairs, which go up far above us, make a swirling pattern that makes me feel a little like the stairs below my shoes are moving.

“What is this?” I half laugh.

“I think up there—” she points— “is the third floor. But these stairs keep on going to I guess maybe a fourth floor, and the design really does make you feel dizzy.”

“Fuck. That’s pretty crazy.”

She nods, holding my hand. We step off the stairs at the second floor and are led down an long hallway to a cavernous room with dozens of candle-lit tables and a curtained stage. A band plays as servers mill around tables filled by about fifty of our school friends.

“He told me Roberto’s ‘hung up’ on you.”

We’re led to a large, round table where we find Dani and her dude Ty, Ree and her girl, and Jace Banetti with some girl I don’t know.

I pull Elise’s chair out before I realize the server was trying to do the same thing at the same time.* * *EliseIt’s a delicious four-course dinner, but there’s something wrong with Luca.

He’s quiet, even when the band is replaced by a comedian. He doesn’t really laugh—he barely smiles. We slip out when the band starts up again and the room is transformed into a dance floor. He holds my hand as we walk until we find an alcove, where he leans me against the wall, staring into my eyes before kissing my lips softly.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

“Just tired.” He tries to smile, but it’s a fail.

“Is it being here? Do you not like the party?”

“No, I like it.” We kiss more, and he holds me against him—tight and close enough so I can feel him inhale deeply. I look up and see him shut his eyes.

“I’m never going to have a house like this,” he says hoarsely.

“That’s good, because it’s kind of creepy. People could be living with you in here and you’d never even notice!”

He blows a breath out, and I nuzzle his chest.

“Let’s go somewhere. Somewhere with just the two of us. My driver will be here in three hours and twenty minutes. That’s plenty of time. Let’s get fast food or…I don’t know. Do something else. We could call a cab. I have my phone in my purse.”

His mouth twists thoughtfully. “I know somewhere. It’s not too far, and it’s kind of a throwback to our first date.”

“Take me away, Mr. Galante.”

His driver, who apparently is waiting, takes us to a glittering marina that is so Manhattan, it makes my blood hum. The boats are yachts. The water gleams with city lights reflected on its choppy surface, and the river breeze kicks my dress up around my shins as we walk hand in hand toward the last slot.