Dark Heart Volume 1: A Star-Crossed Mafia Romance (Dark Heart Duet), Page 3

  My eyes well as I smile at his smile in this photo. It looks so real. It’s a smile I haven’t seen in years, and I can’t understand that even when I try. Which is why I keep coming back to this snapshot—and a few others, which are tucked into my baby book in my room. Years ago, my father used to spend time with Isa’s regularly. The men in this photo were his friends. And now they aren’t. Years ago, my father was an attorney for Isa’s, and now he isn’t.

  A few years ago, something changed. And then that one time I asked about Mr. Arnoldi, my mother told me not to again.

  “Ever?” I’d pressed, being a pest.

  “Not around your father,” she’d said.

  Sometime shortly after, Becca started to decline, and Mom told me my father was dealing with “challenges at work.” Over the months that followed, Dad was home less and less, until finally, we only saw him at dinner—if then.

  It’s still like that.

  I don’t understand. Maybe I don’t need to, but the whole thing makes me sad. Both my parents seem to have their own lives, sans kids.

  I look at the picture of Becca on my father’s desk. It’s a tiny snapshot—just her face—before I leave. I grab my backpack from the chair outside the library door and slip it on. Then I hurry down the hardwood hall, hating that I wasted even one second that I could have spent with Becca.

  Luca

  I thought of fucking off today, but here I am—ass parked on the old, familiar F train. Jane in Pink has her usual falafel breakfast clutched against her pale pink blazer, so that’s mostly what I smell as I pull out a paperback and shift against the hard plastic seat.

  The train starts down the tracks, and Jane starts on her damn falafel. I don’t know how she eats it standing up, but that’s how she rolls. I’d put her at 50, maybe, with coppery red hair and sharp brown eyes. I admire the way she won’t wear anything but pink, but I wish she’d start eating that goddamn falafel before she gets on. Every weekday, makes my stomach growl till we pull into Jay Street.

  Red Hook people mostly work on this side of the bridge, but there’s a few who get on C train with me at Jay and head toward Wall Street. Jane’s not one of them, but still, I think she sort of knows me; I’ve been taking this train on school days since the start of last year.

  When I slip my book into my backpack and stand up at Jay, Jane’s eyes flicker to my face.

  Yeah, yeah. I quirk a brow up for her, and her gaze plummets to the remains of her falafel.

  Yep, that’s what I thought. It’s okay, Jane. Ugly ass black eye, but it’ll be gone in no time.

  The C is cleaner than the F train. They clean it with something that smells like lemons. The scent is strongest in the mornings and more muted when I get back on the C at Chambers after school.

  I should probably stand up on the C, since it’s a longer ride with more old people, but turns out I can’t. I hardly ever rode a train till junior year, when I started at my new school, and I found out fast trains make me dizzy as shit.

  If I sit still and focus on reading, it’s a little better. Today, I’ve got a Stephen King book, and it does its job. I forget I’m on a train till we’re approaching Fulton. Back into fiction land until Chambers, and that’s my stop. I slip the book into a slot inside my backpack and keep my head down as I step off the train and start toward the street.

  I can feel the looks I’m getting as I pass the crowd that’s heading into the station. I tell myself it doesn’t matter. A week or so, and the eye will fade from ugly purple black to greenish yellow, and it won’t be such a flashing light.

  I stop as soon as I get into the sunlight, set my backpack on a bench, and pull out a ball cap my pal Missanelli gave me. Dude wants me to go out for the baseball team, but I don’t think that’s gonna work. Not with what I’ve got going this summer.

  Don’t think about that shit right now.

  I fit the ball cap onto my head. It’s deep purple with twin interlocked “M”s in gold thread on the front. With the cap on and my chin tucked, I don’t get as many looks. It’s a sunny day, and the cap’s bill casts a shadow over my eyes. Plus, shit’s busy.

  Chambers Street always is. Guys unloading frozen cuts of pork from delivery trucks, people hawking stuff from stuff stands, all the shop doors swinging, cool air wafting out onto the sidewalk. Lots of people walking to work, and a few people pedaling. It’s early October and the leaves are just starting to turn, with streaks of gold near their tips and spots of brown creeping along rich green facades. It’s a perfect fifty-seven degrees this morning, according to a digital sign above a store’s awning.

  I lengthen my strides as I pass a crew on scaffolding, eight arms reaching to smear putty on the outside of a brick building. A green-haired guy nods my way as he pedals by on a bike towing a portable espresso station. I’ve gotten my caffeine fix from him a few times, and I’m pretty sure he’s around my age.

  “Hey, man.”

  An older guy in front of me glances over his shoulder before returning to his cell phone conversation.

  Most students at Manhattan Magnet aren’t commuting from Brooklyn, much less Red Hook. As far as I know, it’s just me making the march from Chambers Station toward Washington Market Park—which is to say I’m walking toward the Hudson.

  Some days—including this one—there’s a breeze off the river that blows through my shirt. I always think the sunshine streaming through these trees seems sunnier than the stuff in Red Hook. At this new school of mine, damn near anything seems possible. Even if it’s not.

  By the time I get to the gardens at Washington Market Park, I’m feeling all right. Beyond the thick green trees that line the sidewalk up ahead, there are some tennis courts. If I time it right as I approach them, I’ll see what I’ve waited for all morning. It’s a familiar scene now: a black Lincoln pulls up to the curb. She always hops out the back door, which is how I know she’s being driven by a service.

  Every day, I watch her rise to her full height…which isn’t too high. I watch as she lifts her long hair over her purple leather backpack. It’s long and wavy, dark but not exactly black. It has some red, I think. Not hair-dyed, but a sort of maroon shine, when the sun hits it, which it does some days as she walks toward Tribeca Bridge, some twenty feet in front of us. The covered bridge takes us over West Street and into the school.

  Every day, I watch as she saunters toward the bridge, and then I watch her as she walks across it. I stay back far enough so she doesn’t feel as if she’s being followed and close enough so I can appreciate her ass as it bounces below the backpack, usually clad in colored jeans or leggings, sometimes hidden by an extra-long blouse.

  I stay close enough that I can smell her. Not because I’m fucking weird and like to smell girls, but because she smells abnormally good. Like what I think gold would smell like if it were a scent: pure and clean, with a hint of something like vanilla. It’s probably some Bergdorf Goodman bullshit, but damn, it smells so fucking good.

  Even after the bridge leads us to the school’s side door and we go opposite ways, I can still smell her.

  Elise O’Hara—that’s her name. Kind of awkward on the cadence there. Elise O’Hara. Might sound better with Galante at the end. Elise Galante.

  I stop under one of the trees shading my stretch of sidewalk by the park’s garden, frowning at the empty tennis court and then out at the traffic.

  Did I miss her? Did she come early? Or is she late?

  It’s kind of creepy, okay? I know. But I crouch down so I can fuck with my shoe, for just a second. I’m only going to wait here for a minute. I hate being late, and today especially, that would suck. Everyone will stare at my busted up face even if I’m at my desk early.

  I toy with my new Jordans. My dad owns a shoe store. Usually he sells more formal shit, but I can get pretty much whatever for the vendor’s price. I’m messing with the laces when the black car parks beside the sidewalk.

  Almost before the wheels stop rolling, the rear door opens and she’s out. Da
mn, she’s like a rocket today. Doesn’t even stop to pull that waterfall of hair out of her backpack straps.

  She walks like she’s pissed or in a bigtime hurry. I check my watch, but we’re not really late. Maybe on the later side of on-time.

  Black pants today. From twenty feet behind her, I can’t see the stitching well enough to know if they’re leggings or this new girl pants thing—“jeggings”—but goddamn with that ass.

  I cast my eyes down to the sidewalk, but it doesn’t last. Just a second later, my gaze jumps back up her curvy form. This time, my eyes rest on her slim shoulders, the sway of her arms. I can tell she’s clutching something half a second before it hits the ground and bounces toward me.

  A stuffed animal?

  I scoop it up, smiling at its big bear eyes and happy panda smile—and then she’s on me. I get a whiff of her—the clean, rich smell—before she snatches the thing from my hand and whirls away, her long hair brushing my cheek as she spins.

  She lowers her head, draws her shoulders in, and dashes toward the bridge that’s just a little up ahead of us—the one that arches over West Street and connects to the side of our school building. As she runs, I hear a clacking sound I realize is her boots. She’s in a fucking run to get away from me.

  I wonder if she’ll stop when she gets to the side door of the school, or at least slow down so I can ask if she’s okay. It doesn’t happen. By the time I make it into the school, she’s lost in the crowd.

  I wonder about her all damn morning. During homeroom when my dickhead teacher, Dr. Brown, asks what happened to my eye—like it’s his business. My pal Loren Missanelli snickers and whisper-hisses, “Did you run into a fence, Galante?”

  “Why a fence?” I throw him a what-the-fuck look.

  He shrugs. “Why not?”

  “Fucking random, man.” I shake my head and slip into thinking about her while everyone around me works on homework.

  In first period it’s the same song, second verse. My buds Liam and Max give me shit about the black eye, and this girl we chill with, Maddie, tries to touch it. When I lean away, she sits on my lap, wraps her arms around my neck, and leans in so her tits are pressed against my chest. I wrap my arm around her back, prepared to move her off me, and that’s the moment our calc instructor, Dr. Sweedish, steps into the room.

  “Mr. Galante,” she chirps. “Kindly relieve yourself of Miss Sinclair and come to my desk.”

  Fuck.

  Sweedish is a young, blonde hottie, but she’s strict as hell. Stricter than she has to be, just to let us know she has a PhD and means business. When I get to her desk, her gaze flies up and down me as her pink lips flatten.

  “We need a new desk for LaShaun Kinsey, your classmate whose desk is squeaking in a way that I find most displeasing. I’ll let you walk to the athletic wing and fetch one from the supply closet. Closet C. Whatever you do,” she adds primly, “don’t hit yourself again in the eye. That looks awful.”

  I let out a breath and nod. “Okay, Dr. Sweedish.”

  “Oh, and from this point forward,” she calls after me, “keep your hands and your body to yourself, or you’ll be written up.”

  I stop for a second in the hall and rub my temple. Fuck, my eye is throbbing. Hell of a time to get asked to haul a desk halfway across the school. But I know it’s my fault, sort of. Last week, Sweedish passed me in the hall when Lana Greene had her arms around my neck. Maybe around my waist; I don’t remember. Lana’s always like that, and it doesn’t mean a thing to her. But I guess Sweedish thinks I’m—what? Threatening the chastity of the student body? Like there is any.

  I shake my head as I start walking. I’m probably the only guy in this school who isn’t prowling for pussy. Not for lack of wanting. Just—there are reasons.

  Of course, now that I’m thinking of pussy, those reasons seems less convincing. Especially when I start thinking of her again: Elise O’Hara. She was so damn fast this morning, I didn’t really even get a chance to enjoy the view. Not even her face, which was turned toward me and away so quickly, I’m not even sure it happened.

  I do remember the stuffed bear, though.

  Maybe she was embarrassed? I haven’t had a stuffed animal since like first grade.

  I close my black eye about halfway to the athletic wing because the sunlight streaming through the horizontal windows hurts. Everything looks weird with only one eye.

  Thinking about the black eye gets me thinking about last night, and that makes me feel weird and sort of drifty. I don’t like the drifty feeling. And so, again, I try to think about Elise O’Hara. Elise and her stuffed bear.

  I think about the first time I ever saw her, on my first day at MM—the first day of last year, my junior year. She was wearing a dress and some kind of strappy sandals, walking right in front of me as I headed to the office to check in. And I could smell her. It’s so fucking weird. So animal. But that’s what caught my attention, and then her body did, and later I found out her name when we had history together.

  I didn’t see her much in that class because as a “G,” I was at the front of a row of desks, and as an “O,” she was always behind me. But I could hear her when she answered questions.

  Thinking of that sultry voice—something hits me. This summer, when I was catering a thing, I followed this girl up some stairs, into a bedroom—and it was her. Holy shit, that was Elise O’Hara. I stop mid-stride, stunned at the realization.

  It makes sense, though. I rub my forehead, remembering how good this girl smelled at the wedding reception. She was beautiful and smart…like I remember I felt like I should protect her, but also, I could tell she wasn’t weak. I close my eyes, imagining her mouth and cheeks as she stood by those bookshelves. It was her.

  I was right behind her, kneeling behind a wooden board thing, when I heard some Mafioso give my dad a stern warning. My dad who shouldn’t have been there at all.

  I pack that part away and replay how I felt with her back pressed to my chest. Then I shake my head. All this shit is pretty weird. I’ve never thought about anybody this much, especially some girl I don’t really know.

  I try to push her out of my head, and to help, I look for colors, like my old school told us to do. Check if there is any blue, or green, or red, or gray around, and find all of that color. It helps calm you down.

  I’m feeling better as I swing a left into the hall that leads to the athletic wing. I’ve still got Elise on my mind, but sort of in the background.

  Until I hear her voice.

  Sheesh. I must not be— No. There it is again. That is her voice.

  I stop to figure out where it’s coming from.

  The hall is empty. I sweep my gaze down the dark purple tile, over the rows of gold athletic lockers. Mine’s not on this hall because of when I transferred in, but I don’t give a shit about what kind of locker I have.

  “I said no, Bruce!”

  Every atom in my body freezes as my eyes fix on the right side of the hall, where there’s a girls’ bathroom. I hear deep, male laughter. It’s the jeering kind, I realize as I step a little closer. “Just offering to help, since you helped me.”

  “And me,” another male voice says.

  I double check the restroom’s sign: Girls.

  “I didn’t help you, no I didn’t. You two copied my test.” There’s a little breathless pause, and then her voice comes louder, harder. “Which, by the way, makes no sense because you’ll have to learn calculus at some point, but it’s also completely unfair to other people in the class who are struggling. Dr. Birkenmeyer scales our grades. You’re making other people’s grades worse when you get high scores like I do.”

  Someone chuckles. “So then you’re part of the problem, too, Elise. Isn’t that how it works?”

  “Well, no. Because I’m not cheating.”

  “Not cheating, but sneaking around. What class are you skipping, O’Hara?”

  “I don’t have a class.” She sighs, a little huff. “I’m an aide this period. For t
he assistant principal.”

  “Does she know you’re in here?”

  “No, but I’m sure she’d care much more that you two are.”

  “We’ve got track. Coach Burns doesn’t give a shit.”

  “This is the ladies’ room. You two should go.”

  I step closer to the door as one guy chuckles. “What, you don’t like us in here? We both know you’re wet for Rainer.”

  “Ewww, gross,” she says. “You two need to leave. Like right now. Really.” Her voice seems a pitch too high on that word.

  “Or what?” I can fucking hear that asswipe leering.

  And suddenly, I’m shoving through the bathroom door. I spot Elise between two porcelain sinks, holding that stuffed panda she dropped earlier this morning.

  Bill Rainer and some prick I don’t know are right up on her, blocking her exit. Elise’s eyes are wide, her pretty mouth a small, alarmed “o.” Her eyes flare wider when her gaze collides with mine.

  “Elise…” I say her name like we’re old friends as I stride toward her. I knock Rainer’s shoulder with mine, and the fucker has the sense to step aside.

  “Hey.” My voice is soft—a cue. Our gazes lock again before I wrap a careful arm around her lower back. “Hey, E. Everything okay in here?”

  I can see her puzzling things out. Then her eyes meet mine again, and her lips flatten. For just a second, she looks wounded, like a girl who’s asking for help. Then her whole face hardens, and she throws a glare over my shoulder.

  “Rainer and Friedrich were just leaving, weren’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Rainer says, already stepping back—but his dumb fuck friend wants to glare.

  “Maybe how about staying the fuck away from someone else’s girl,” I say as I move my arm from behind Elise and take a step toward the two asswipes. Neither is especially threatening, but there are two of them. “What do you think?”

  I get a shot of perverse satisfaction as their faces twist in fear. Rainer takes two more steps back and wheels around to go. Dumb fuck sputters for a second and then beats feet. Their footsteps echo off the mustard yellow tile.