Burned Dreams (Perfectly Imperfect #7)

One of the chairs inside the gazebo has a cushion, a slight barrier against the cold. I turn it so it’s facing away from the house and take a seat. A few moments later, the crunch of frozen leaves alerts me as Alessandro comes to stand somewhere at my back. Closing my eyes, I tilt my head toward the setting sun and inhale, letting the smell of chilly winter air fill my lungs.

“Do you have a nickname?” I ask.

A few more leaves get crushed under his feet, a little closer this time.

“Yes.”

His voice has such a pleasant timbre to it. Like the purr of a big, wild cat. A panther on the prowl. Just before he eats you up. I wait for him to continue, but the only thing I can hear is a distant whir of a vacuum cleaner coming from the mansion.

“And, will you tell me what it is?”

“Yes.”

I lift my hand and press my fingers over my mouth to stifle a laugh. He really likes his answers monosyllabic. Or maybe he doesn’t like the idea of talking to me. I should probably leave the man alone but I like the sound of his voice too much. And since we’re both facing away from the house, no one can tell that we’re talking.

“What is it, then?” I prod. “I bet it’s something short.”

“Az.”

A giggle escapes my lips. It doesn’t get shorter than that. I like his full name better.

“Rocco mentioned you worked for the don before you were transferred here,” I say. “Security detail, as well?”

“Yes.”

“For the don?”

“His wife.”

I try to remember what Salvatore Ajello’s wife looks like, but can’t. They both attended my wedding, and I recall people gossiping about her, however, I was too distracted that day to pay attention. “How is she?”

A few moments of silence ensue before he answers, and when he does, I almost fall off the chair at his response.

“Whacky.”

“I’m not sure it’s wise to call the don’s wife whacky out loud.” A snort escapes me as I chortle the words.

“Maybe.”

I glance over my shoulder. Alessandro is leaning on the tree by the gazebo, his gaze fixed on me. Suddenly, as if everything else fades from existence, his hard, dark eyes capture mine, and I find myself unable to look away. Alessandro pushes off from the tree and, taking a few large steps, comes to stand right behind my chair.

“But you’re good at keeping secrets.” He lifts his hand and places his index finger under my chin, tilting my head up. “Aren’t you, Mrs. Pisano?”

There’s that hostility in his eyes again, but his touch is so gentle, barely there. I blink and quickly look away, his finger slipping from my face. Pulling my legs up, I wrap my arms around my folded knees and turn my gaze to the expanse of orange sky above the horizon. The sound of retreating steps echoes behind me as Alessandro walks away. I don’t try to see where he’s going, too absorbed in the still lingering feel of his fleeting touch and the fluttering it inflicted in my chest.

A few minutes later, I hear him approach again. Or maybe I just feel him. I’m still focused on the sky when something soft and fluffy lands on my back. I look down, staring at the edges of the blanket Alessandro placed around my shoulders, while the last rays of the setting sun sink behind the bare branches of the trees.

Chapter 6

I step on the lawn and head toward the garage, making sure I walk a few more feet over to the left than I did yesterday. The camera mounted on the lamppost by the driveway covers a wider angle than I thought, and I need to determine how much wider.

Every morning when I arrive at the Pisano mansion, I take a seemingly casual stroll around the grounds, and to anyone who might wonder, it probably looks like I’m just walking around while waiting for my charge to get ready. However, there is nothing random in my intent.

The map of the Pisano property, which is pinned on my wall, has all camera positions marked with a circle around each, showing the approximate area it covers. I don’t rely on approximation, so every morning, I take the path I believe will avoid the camera-monitored spaces. When I get home at night, I play that morning’s recording, note the spots where the cameras picked me up, and adjust my route the next time. During the ten days of reconnaissance, I’ve established most of the locations on the driveway and the front lawn where cameras don’t reach. A week or so more, and I’ll have the whole property scouted.

The door on the second-floor balcony opens, and Ravenna Pisano steps out, wearing a long white satin robe. I take a step behind a thick beech tree so I can watch her without being seen. Her black hair is gathered in a bun, as always, and even from this distance, I can see she’s wearing heavy makeup. It creates such a contrast with her delicate gown as it flutters in the wind. She resembles one of the marble statues scattered around the lawn. Cold. Untouchable.

Her husband called me this morning, giving me her schedule for the day and asking if I have anything to report. As I do every morning, I said nothing out of the ordinary transpired the previous day. But the thing is, what Rocco Pisano considers ordinary is anything but.