Killer Curves

by Roxie Wilde

  He said nothing for a long while, those blue eyes seeming to look straight through me.

  Finally, he let out a long, low breath. My pulse stuttered in my chest when Giorno reached out, tucking a wayward dark curl behind my ear. It was an unexpectedly sweet, almost tender gesture. For a heartbeat the clouds shifted behind his gaze, a world of pain and walls as high as my own clear as day.

  He dropped his hands to his sides again an instant later, the facade right back in place.

  “It makes sense,” he nodded. “We’ll get to the bottom of what the Alexeev’s want. Both of our families will be stronger for it. Looks like we’ve got a wedding to plan.”

  Chapter 4

  Giorno

  Parties made me itchy.

  It wasn’t anything as simple as being around large groups of people. That merely made me anxious. When I was a young boy, crowds had been reassuring. Comforting. I could hide inside them, blend in. Especially the big family dinners — Dio would steal the spotlight of those, and I was all too happy to fade into the background.

  Then had come the summer of my thirteenth year. I started a growth spurt in mid-May that seemed to never end. My voice deepened, my lanky form filled out by days spent working for Papa and huge bowls of pasta for every meal. I was ravenous, constantly hungry. When I wasn’t working or eating I slept like the dead, deep coma-like slumber that people had to shake me out of.

  By the time school started, I was looking down on my brother instead of up to him. I think that’s when things first went sour between us. I still idolized him, still looked up to him, but Dio never forgave me for being the bigger man.

  That was when crowds stopped being something I enjoyed. After that, I couldn’t blend in no matter how I tried. I stood out like a sore thumb, all the worse for how I still slouched and tried to shrink myself to fit in.

  Papa had put an end to that. “Stand tall, son. Never be ashamed of who you are. You’re a Romano. Act like one.”

  I never heard my father scold Dio like that. I knew we were different, but I couldn’t help but blame him for it. If he had been more stern with my roguish brother, would they now be buried side by side?

  I sighed at myself in the mirror as I fiddled with the tie. I had always hated bow ties. My Uncle Joey had always worn a bow tie, and I couldn’t help but think of how ridiculous he had looked to me. As a child, I’d seen him as a clown — complete with a big red nose and bright bow-tie. The source of his nose was a penchant for overindulging at the family vineyards, something that had caught up to him and his liver just a few years ago.

  A wedding was just the thing the family needed. We’d had too many funerals, too much loss. Too much losing. We needed a win.

  I just wish it was anyone else but Francesca Moretti.

  I gave up on the tie, unable to make it look good despite a half dozen attempts. I left the collar unbuttoned. I smiled. It was not at all like me to have a stitch of clothing out of place.

  “Clothes make the man, boys.”

  Papa had tried to teach us both when he could, but all too often his lessons fell on deaf ears in Dio’s case. Or worse. He’d taken that pearl of wisdom to heart, but in the worst possible way. His closet was full of outfits ranging from borderline tasteful to downright tacky. I knew for a fact there was at least one bedazzled three-piece complete with a diamond-encrusted tie. It had cost us a fortune, of course. Dio never spent a hundred dollars when he could spend a thousand.

  I donned my mask and tried on a smile for a change. The two combined to make me unrecognizable to myself. I was still tall and filled my suit out, but there would be no shortage of big guys tonight. Without my normal stern expression, with my face hidden behind the delicate white porcelain of the half-mask, I could pass for someone else.

  Someone happy to be attending a party.

  The mask itself was exquisite. Not the one the groom was originally supposed to wear, of course. Not only would that be morbid, but the fine gold filigree that my brother was so fond of would have made my itching terminal. No, this was a much more simple and elegant thing, covering just the upper half of my face. It was finely detailed, a work of art. It suited me much more than any gaudy thing my brother fancied.

  Would.

  Would have fancied. I sighed again, taking the mask off, the smile falling away with it. It was so easy to forget, to think of him as still being here. He had been larger than life. I wasn’t surprised that he had died. I had always known deep down that he was burning his candle at both ends. I’d pulled his iron out of the fire more than once, seen the results of his reckless behavior. Still, it was hard to accept that he was really gone.

  Tendrils of guilt snaked their way back through me. That tiny, awful, evil part of me that was glad to be relieved of the burden of being my brother’s keeper.

  I put the mask back on and smiled at the handsome stranger I saw in the mirror. The mask hid what I considered my most distinctive feature — a strong hooked nose. With it hidden by the fine ivory, I was a different man. My perpetual stubble didn’t manage to hide my jawline. The blue of my eyes weren't obscured by the mask, either. If anything the stark white added contrast and made them stand out even more.

  It wasn’t the style of engagement party I would have chosen for myself. A classic masquerade ball, complete with an orchestra and ice sculptures? It was so very decadent, so very extra, so very Dio. It was a better memorial than the funeral had been. He would have wanted a grand party in his honor. Now we would give it to him.

  I straightened my cuffs one last time and turned my back on the man in the mirror.

  The party was meant to be an anonymous masquerade in the grand style of Venice, but I still recognized Francesca instantly. No mask, no amazing ballroom gown could ever disguise her voluptuous figure. She was wearing a shimmering sapphire blue dress that must have cost a fortune. It hugged her shapely curves, showing off her figure flawlessly. I watched as she twirled around the dance floor with one of the many masked men that seemed to congregate near her.

  Seeing her together with someone else had never been easy. I had resigned myself to her being my brother’s bride, although it had grated. Seeing her dancing happily with someone else — so soon after mourning him — it filled me with conflicting emotions. I knew she was putting on an act, but even so, I was struck by the wrongness of it. Seeing her celebrating so soon after losing Dio offended me.

  It’s not like a part of you didn’t celebrate too.

  The thought was intrusive, something I couldn’t seem to shake, no matter how many times I had it or how hard I distracted myself. I knew it was irrational, I knew it didn’t make me a bad person… but I still couldn’t shake the feelings of self-loathing. They bubbled up from within, eating away at me. Battery acid pumping through my veins.

  Originally I’d planned to circle for a while, mingle with the crowd. Dance with a few others, let Francesca do the same. We needed to feel people out, see where loyalties were lying now. See which way the wind was blowing. All of that went squarely out the window as I marched across the dance floor and tapped her current partner on the shoulder.

  “You don’t mind if I cut in, do you?” I didn’t ask.

  I didn’t recognize the wide eyes behind the simple black mask of the man. I did recognize the look, though. Fear. Trepidation. In our line of work, ordering people around who had that look meant one of two things. Either they bowed up, stubborn pride making them make a fool of themselves, or…

  “Of course not. She’s all yours.”

  I smiled at him perfunctorily. There was no humor at all in my voice.

  “Yes. She is.”

  Francesca was all smiles only until the guy was out of earshot. Then her dark eyes were stabbing into mine. The set of her mouth and the way her nails dug into my skin through my suit made her displeasure clear.

  “What are you doing?!” Her whisper was pitched low enough none of the other couples spinning around us could hear us over the string quartet. I met her
gaze, refusing to back down. Stubborn pride and jealousy combined, alloyed to make me the biggest fool of us all.

  “I’m dancing with my fiance. Is that a crime?”

  She didn’t look away. We held each other locked in the impromptu staring contest, neither of us willing to back down or so much as blink. Unable to look away, I couldn’t see her but I could feel her curves pressed against me as we flowed through the steps of the dance. Coming together and moving apart, again and again, each intricate step perfect and flawless.

  I knew it wasn’t according to plan, I knew it was a mistake, but I just couldn’t help it. All my life I had been the smart and sensible one, the perfectionist who never made a mistake. It had been necessary to counteract the natural disaster in human form that was my brother.

  Now I was free of that burden, untethered. Free to do what I wanted, chase who I wanted for the first time in my life. It was as exhilarating as it was terrifying, but I had learned to face my fears at an early age.

  I spun Francesca out, breaking our eye contact by necessity, then pulled her back against me. Her back pressed against my chest, and I was suddenly aware of how hard she was breathing, how hard my heart was beating in my chest. I felt like I’d run a marathon instead of danced one dance. I glanced down over her shoulder, hypnotized by the rise and fall of her generous cleavage.

  One of her hands reached up behind her, fingers curling into my hair. To anyone else, the move was sensual. I could feel the bite of her nails into my skin, feel the tension in her frame.

  “As soon as we’re out of here I’m going to kill you myself.”

  I’d been threatened a lot in my life to various degrees of sincerity. Francesca’s was the most intimidating, most authentic I’d ever heard. Somehow it worked, only made her more attractive. Maybe it was the depth of her passion. Anyone who could hate to that degree was someone who could feel things strongly, someone worth pursuing.

  “You can take your best shot. I won’t go out without a fight though.”

  I grinned at her madly. It was taking my life in my hands to egg her on when she was already so riled up, but I couldn’t help it. The warmth of her closeness combined with the sharpness of her tongue, mixing together into a potent cocktail that I was quickly becoming intoxicated on. It loosened my tongue just as much as any bottle of ‘93 Pinot Noir ever had.

  She spun out of my grasp, coming back only to stop at arm’s length. Far enough apart that I could no longer feel the round curve of her ass pressing against me, close enough I could see the fire in her eyes as she glared at me from behind her own intricate mask. It was ivory as well, with hints of azure that matched her satin dress. Brushes of silver at the eyes gave an illusion of eyeshadow, which I could see she had matched underneath the porcelain as well.

  It was a small attention to detail, a tiny touch in the grand scheme of things, but the dedication to perfection made me ache for her harder than ever. I’d wanted her since I’d laid eyes on her, but that was just lust; this was something far, far more dangerous.

  She opened her mouth to respond, but stopped as the music came to a screeching halt, the violin striking a loud, discordant note. I’d always hated the shriek of an off-note on a delicate string. It set my teeth on edge, but nowhere near as much as the next sound I heard.

  Gunfire.

  Instinctively I grabbed Francesca, hauling us both to the side. We dove to the floor, ducking behind a table. I reached inside my jacket out of habit, cursing when my hand met smooth silk instead of leather. I never went anywhere without a gun. Except, of course, tonight.

  I glanced down at the beautiful woman beneath me, checking to make sure she was alright. I didn’t know what I expected to see — fear, stress, alarm. Francesca’s eyes, however, were pure and unadulterated rage. I’d seen a lot of angry people in my life, but I’d never seen such molten fury in just a pair of dark eyes before.

  I peeked my head up over the table I had tackled us behind. Glancing around the room, the scene was utter chaos. People in finery littered the ground, dead and dying. Men in matching tuxedos with guns were moving around the room, lifting the masks of downed party goers. They were looking for specific people.

  “Come on, we’ve got to go.” I grabbed her wrist, preparing to move quickly. She twisted her arm in my grasp, digging her nails into the inside of my wrist.

  “My family!” She hissed a caustic whisper.

  I shook my head. “You’re no good to them dead. Come on.”

  I didn’t give her a choice in the matter, hauling her behind me as we ducked away from our makeshift cover. I kept us crouched low, moving from table to table as we wove our way towards the rear exit. Another burst of gunfire was the prelude to a fresh chorus of screams. They sounded far away, even though I knew they were just across the ballroom floor. My ears were still ringing from the initial shots ringing out. I pulled her to the door, opening it and trying to push her through.

  I glanced back over my shoulder to see if we’d been spotted. Francesca turned to look with me, and it almost cost us everything.

  The group of men — the musicians, I realized belatedly — had found their target. They had Stefano Moretti on his knees, porcelain mask shattered, revealing his face to his assassins. He held his head up high, the blood trickling down from his temple doing nothing to mar his image. I felt Francesca stiffen up, beginning to turn back, to say something to her father. I slammed a hand over her mouth, stifling her.

  Too late. The fatal shots made his body jerk, blood spraying out. Stefano fell to the ground, limp and lifeless. Just another causality now.

  “Fan out, find his other brat. We end this tonight!”

  I dragged Francesca’s eyes back to mine. They were wild, fierce, and full of unshed tears. I kept my hand over her mouth, holding her gaze with my own.

  “You can’t avenge them if you’re dead. The best thing we can do is deny them what they want. Live to get your revenge another day. Now come on.”

  She nodded at me and I relaxed my hand, pushing her through the door and racing for the garage.

  The man came out of nowhere and he hit me like a ton of bricks. I’d taken my fair share of shots before, but the sheer size of him meant I hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of me. I didn’t let it slow me down, but he was ready for me. He went for his gun, but I managed to knock it away, a well placed strike that sent the weapon sliding across the floor.

  Then his hands were on my throat and it was all I could do to keep him from choking me to death. My hands wrapped around his wrists, pulling them away, but he was a big guy, almost my size, and he had the advantage of leverage.

  In close combat, in a grapple like this, getting the upper hand, getting on top — that was usually all it took. You could let your victim wear themselves out as gravity worked for you and against them.

  All at once, he went limp.

  Unfortunately for the man on top of me, he’d either forgotten or dismissed Frankie Moretti. She was standing above him, fire extinguisher raised to hit him again, but I could tell from the way the blood was already pooling in his ear that he wasn’t getting back up tonight. Or ever.

  I picked myself up and grabbed her hand, giving her a nod as we raced towards my car.

  I had to get us out of here, get away. Nowhere in LA would be safe, now. Not with the Russians in complete control. We’d have to skip town tonight.

  It was time to go home.

  Chapter 5

  Francesca

  The roar of gunfire was still deafening in my ears.

  Or maybe that was the pounding of my own heartbeat. I couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

  I wasn’t unfamiliar with the sound. I’d spent enough time practicing with Daddy, Cristian and even Dio to be comfortable with the heft of a Beretta in my hand, the recoil from a weapon, the acrid smell of gunsmoke. At the range, gunshots were a dime a dozen; muffled to a removed, almost clinical dullness behind a protective insulation of foam earplugs and giant plastic
muffs. But there was nothing dull about the reality of what had just unfolded in front of us.

  Every roaring shot that pierced the night had been a hypodermic straight to the center of my chest. The adrenaline still hummed along my veins. Images of my father’s strong frame, crumpled in a white suit splattered with crimson, flashed through my mind. The fresh, bloody memory was superimposed over the sight of Cristian being dragged off into the back of a black SUV. It played on an endless reel in my head, timed to the soundtrack of thunderous gunshots, an unending loop of blood and screams.

  “Francesca.” Giorno’s quiet voice came from the driver’s seat beside me, a subtle intrusion to the scene I was reliving, unblinking, as I stared out into the starless night beyond my own window.

  “Frankie.” My voice sounded detached. A million miles away from my own ears.

  The silence that filled the car after that was palpable— physical, almost malleable thing after the roar of the party. I had no idea how long we’d been driving.

  “My father used my full name. He’s gone now.” I swallowed hard, realizing for the first time that the lights and traffic of LA were nowhere to be seen. In the blackness racing past the car, I made out the shapes and shadows of endless desert. There was a shuffling from beside me as Girono reached across the close space of the Alfa Romeo’s cabin and wrapped my hand in the warmth of his long fingers.

  It was an intimate gesture, out of character for a man I’d written off as being nearly as cold as the gun holstered at his hip.

  “We’re going to find him, Frankie. We’ll get your brother back. I promised you justice, and you’ll have it. Not just for Dio now. For Stefano, too.”

  Hearing my father’s name on Giorno’s lips was almost enough to break me. The ice in my chest splintered, threatened to crack. I let out a long breath before turning from the window to where Giorno’s fingers were laced with mine. Two dark drops stained the olive skin of his palm, and my throat tightened.

  Whose blood was that?