Twin Flame: A Dark Heart Prequel (Dark Heart Duet) Read online

  Twin Flame

  The Dark Heart Prequel

  Ella James

  Twin Flame

  Ella James

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Najla Qamber Designs

  Formatting by Jamie Davis

  ©2020, Ella James. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Ella James. Anyone downloading this book from any vendor other than Amazon.com is engaging in ebook piracy.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Follow Me

  Also by Ella James

  All the world’s a stage,

  And all the men and women merely players;

  They have their exits and their entrances,

  And one man in his time plays many parts …

  —William Shakespeare, As You Like It

  Chapter One

  Luca

  “Dude, you look like fucking Zorro.”

  Alessandro holds a big-ass tray of chiocciole between us as he makes this proclamation. His brown eyes are wide, and he looks earnest, because Alessandro is an earnest kind of guy.

  Still, I’ve gotta roll my eyes because they’re not behind a black mask. “It’s a bandana, not a mask, Alesso. And it’s over my mouth. I’m a train robber.”

  He shakes his head, trying not to smile and failing, which makes his vampire teeth protrude over his lower lip. “You sure about that?”

  “Sure I’m sure. Who are you—the Sesame Street guy?”

  “I’m Count On It, cause I’m gonna get with something tonight, you can count on it.”

  I laugh, and Alesso gives me an abashed grin. He jerks his chin over his shoulder and says, “There’s some ribollita that needs to go to the big table in the dining hall.” He nods at the swinging double doors that separate the kitchen from the hall. “The table has tall green shit and a bunch of tissue-papery white flowers. Leo fucking disappeared after he brought the empty tray in here, and the sterno flame is kinda exposed. I’m worried someone’s gonna catch their shirt on fire before we can drop another dish on top of that flame.”

  I nod, walking around the counter behind Alesso to grab the stainless steel tray, weighted with ribollita. I clutch the hot serving dish by its edges and start toward the doors. “I gotcha covered, Count.”

  He says, “Thank you” in what he must think is a Transylvania voice. It’s not even a little bit convincing, which is why I laugh.

  I’m still grinning as I start down the long hall that runs alongside the dining room, adjoining ballroom, and several big rooms labeled “parlors.”

  For this masquerade-themed festa, which runs from 9 p.m. to 1 in the morning, we’re at one of the ritziest buildings in Tribeca. Alesso said it’s owned by the Arnoldi family, and I’m sure he’s right. This is the wedding reception for Clarice DeBourn, the younger sister of Roberto Arnoldi. Yeah, that Roberto Arnoldi. Which makes Clarice the daughter of the infamous Lamberto Arnoldi.

  Rumor is he might be in the building at some point tonight. It was also rumored he might walk the bride down the aisle this afternoon at her second wedding.

  I just got here, so I haven’t really heard any of the new gossip. But even my mother had heard the news—and she was pissed. Lamberto, walking his divorced daughter to a priest in a church.

  I try not to laugh at that as I make my way down the hall. I have to say “excuse me” half a dozen times as I move through a group of like nine women. I tip my head back when one catches my eye, giving her a smile. She looks good—but she’s old enough to be my nonna.

  The woman beside her pulls a feathery pink mask away from her face, waggling her white eyebrows, and I laugh as I pass them.

  “Look at that train robber,” I hear one of them say.

  I move under an archway into the vast space of the dining hall, and my throat tightens a little. It’s not nervousness so much as claustrophobia. The room is almost as big as a high school gymnasium, and it’s packed with bodies wearing gowns, tuxes, and masquerade shit. The flowers smell, the perfume smells, the food smells…plus the talking, laughing, shrieking… I can hear music come from the ballroom. It’s orchestra-style and loud as fuck, with all the whiny violins and trombones.

  I look for the table Alesso described and spot it right away, beside a big ice carving of…a naked woman. I frown at the thing, but yeah, that’s definitely a nude lady with pointy tits rising out of a crystal trough of…is that champagne? Why the hell didn’t Alesso use her for a point of reference?

  That gets me laughing again—so much that I almost drop the ribollita. I squeeze between a group of girls and guys around my age, keeping my head down in case I know someone; it’s possible, given where I go to school now.

  Finally, the fucking chafing dish is in its spot, covering the blue flame, and I take a second to look at the ice goddess.

  I’m thinking of how I’ll rib Alesso when I see him in a minute. So although my gaze is aimed at the arched doorway leading back into the hall, I’m not really looking. But then someone steps into my frame of vision who looks like…

  What the fuck?

  I stop in my tracks and watch as the tall guy in the hall turns fully away from me and then steps into the shadows.

  I make a beeline for the next arch down. The dining room is lined by arches like this all the way down its left side. They open into the hallway—so if I go through the next one down, I might be able to come up from behind him and—

  Fuck! The hall is jammed with people again. I can see a group of men moving toward the ballroom, flanked by women and a waiter or two, but they’re too far away now to make out faces.

  I take another second to try to chill the fuck out before pushing through the kitchen’s swinging doors. I tell myself I’m crazy. He wouldn’t be here. Not in a million years—for so many reasons. The fact that I’m seeing him, that my brain has got him showing up where I am, even though I know that he’s in Red Hook right now…

  I don’t want to think about what that shit means, so I shoulder through the kitchen doors, where I almost collide with a big dude—like, giant-sized. He frowns at me. I’m wearing black pants, a white dress shirt, and a black bowtie—the clothes Alesso’s uncle makes us wear for these gigs—so even with the train robber bandana, I don’t think it’s hard to guess what I’m doing in the kitchen.

  He gives me a nod, murmurs something into an earpiece, and passes through the doors.

  As soon as he’s gone, my friend Leo steps around a support column—done in gray tile, just like the rest of this space—and bugs his eyes out at me.

  “Dude, he’s here.”

  “Uhh, huh?”

  Leo’s eyes pop open wider—one is blue, and one is brown—and he waves his arms. “Roberto Arnoldi just got here and Lamberto is in here somewhere, too. That was Roberto’s guy asking me to bring up dinner for him. He’s in one of the libraries. He thought I was Luigi because—” Leo tugs on his jacket, which has Alesso’s uncle Luigi’s nametag. He laughs, sounding slightly deranged. “Do you want to take it up there?”

  “What, you don’t?”

  “Shit, no!”

  “You scared to go up there?”

  “Nah, man, I’m not scared.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  Leo shrugs. “I don’t know man.”

  I shake my
head again and glance around for the plate. “Well, where is it?”

  “I haven’t made it yet.”

  I hesitate. If Roberto recognized me, that could be bad, but…I pull the bandana up over my face more.

  “Would you recognize me, Leo, if you saw me around?”

  “I’d think you were Zorro.”

  What is with these guys? “Zorrto wears an eye mask.”

  Leo shrugs, and I groan. “Make the plate. I’ll take it up there.”

  I was probably a foot shorter when I had my run-in with Roberto. It’ll be fine.

  Leo spazzes as he fixes the plate—really more a platter—and I try to talk him down without laughing at him. By the time I’m headed out of the kitchen, Alesso is coming back in.

  “He’s taking food to Roberto Arnoldi,” Leo tells Alesso.

  “What?” His mouth lolls open. “We’re sending Luca?”

  “Only the best.” I shove through the doors before Alesso’s surprise makes me second guess my mission.

  I’m supposed to take the staff elevator at the end of the hall to the twentieth floor, where, two doors down from the elevator, there’s a large library. That’s where Roberto and his posse are.

  The platter I’m holding is covered and heated. I feel weird as I ride the staff elevator up with the thing. Like a caterer, I think with an eye roll at myself. I’m a weekend caterer, and so the fuck what? I’ve never minded before. I clench my jaw as I eye myself in the elevator’s mirror wall.

  Fuck Roberto Arnoldi. Even if he recognizes me, so what? I’m taking one for the team. Leo wasn’t gonna do it. Alesso’s brother Tony—who’s become one of Arnoldi’s minions—would lose his shit if he found out Alesso did it.

  I can handle this shit. I’ve got on the bandana. It’s true my eyes are what my mom calls “crystalline” blue and that’s unusual in this circle, but a library like this might be dark. Anyway, I’m not the only person in Manhattan with pale blue eyes.

  I steel myself as I step out of the elevator and blink around the twentieth floor hall. It’s dark as shit in here, with crazy-high ceilings, open flame wall lamps, and décor that’s almost goth looking: long, velvet curtains, a sculpture of a stallion on its hind legs, marble floors.

  I catch the unmistakable scent of pricey cigars—the kind these people used to stand outside my dad’s shoe store and smoke when I was a kid, before I knew who any of them were. For a second, that aroma takes me back. And now I’ve got a nervous feeling—like I’m a kid who’s gone wandering where he shouldn’t.

  The hall feels still, but I hear men’s voices from a little ways away. Something clinks, like a liquor bottle on the rim of a glass, like champagne flutes for a toast. And then I’m there, I’m standing in the library’s doorway.

  As I look in, Arnoldi himself looks up from his lap—he’s sitting in a high-backed chair—and his gaze locks onto mine.

  He says something I can’t hear, followed by a boisterous, “If it isn’t my meal!”

  I walk toward him, doing this thing I’m pretty good at where I fake it. Just fake the shit out of whatever. No one ever knows its bullshit. Not even Alesso, I don’t think. What I do is I summon this memory of Alesso’s uncle, Zio Mark, in my head, serving the governor with a platter just like this one. It was my first day on the job, about a year ago.

  I don’t go all out for Arnoldi, because that’d be weird, but I serve his platter with some finesse.

  I take the top off for him, and he peers down at the platter. I take the paper cover off his glass, and he looks up at me.

  “Luca Galante,” he says in a knowing tone.

  Shit. My heart gives a slow throb, but I straighten up and stand before him like a soldier at attention.

  “Catering for Regio’s.” He drags each word out, as if this fact is of interest to him. His eyes are so dark, they look black in the low light. I feel everyone looking at me now…as I look at him. The thick head of black hair, the high cheekbones, straight nose. He’s short, but you can’t tell when he’s seated. And it hardly matters.

  I nod once. “Luigi is my friend’s uncle.”

  “And who is your friend?”

  “Alesso,” I say, trying to sound casual—and avoid his surname.

  “Tony Diamond’s brother.” He nods and picks up his steak knife. “Good kids,” he says. “Working hard. That’s the key, you know.” His eyes bore into mine as he picks up a fork, preparing to cut his ribeye. “Hard work takes you everywhere. It’s what I tell my daughter. Have you met my daughter?”

  “I don’t think so, sir.”

  That makes him smile. He looks to his plate, and I watch while he cuts the steak.

  “Just the way I like it. Good to taste the…elemental.” He gives me a smile that’s full of shit but looks almost charming.

  “Would you like anything else, Mr. Arnoldi?”

  “Oh, I would like a number of things. What can you give me, Mr. Galante?” He lifts his chin, smiling at someone across the room as if he’s just told a good joke. His gaze moves back to me. “I’m fucking with you, son. Padre—” He sits slightly up in his chair, clearly looking toward one of the room’s corners. “Non vuoi cenare?”

  There’s a low chuckle from someone I can’t see. Then a booming voice says, “Sto mangiando questo sigaro.”

  The room rumbles with laughter. Polite or sincere?

  Softly—so softly I think only I can hear—Roberto Arnoldi says, “My father won’t eat, but send him up a plate. Give it an hour.” He winks. “No one likes to feel forgotten.”

  I nod and turn to go. I manage to keep my head up and my gait steady—until I’m almost to the door, and Roberto says my name. I look over my shoulder. He raises his brows as his face twists in a look that’s somehow critical and imploring at once.

  “Be careful what you get involved with,” he says in whisper-quiet Italian. “I would hate for you to close doors you wouldn’t want closed.”

  He lifts an eyebrow, giving me a pointed look.

  I nod again, because I can’t find my tongue.

  Chapter Two

  Luca

  Be careful what you get involved with. What the fuck does that mean? How does he know that I speak Italian? Does he know what I do for Tony? Why would he object? It bothers me so much, I want to chew on it for a few minutes.

  There’s a stairwell in the corner, right beside the elevator. I pull its door open, finding not the standard rubber-lined cement floor but polished wood topped with thick, red carpet. The walls are papered deep gold, and the one across from me has windows punched into it.

  The windows aren’t made of glass. Or if they are, the glass is distorted, so you can’t see the city outside. Just smears of yellow, green, blue, and red.

  I look down into the space between the stairwell’s railings, surprised that the glossy, wood rail seems to go all the way to the bottom floor. I’m looking up, to see how high the staircase goes, when I hear a rapping sound from just above my head.

  Heels. It’s gotta be.

  Whoever’s wearing them is moving quickly, maybe even frantically, if the staccato of the clap clap clap clap is any indication. I realize that if the sound just started, and I never heard a door open or shut, then someone froze when I stepped onto the stairs, remained silent for the ten or fifteen seconds I stared at the window, and now they’re…running?

  I strain my ears and catch some sort of sigh—it’s sharp and breathy. The heel sounds stop, and a moment later, I hear a door creak open. Whatever she’s doing, she isn’t being quiet about it.

  I take a deep breath, and realize I can smell her perfume. It’s rich and clean, with a whiff of something that’s a little like vanilla. I…like it. It’s…familiar. It makes me feel good. Why?

  I start up the stairs behind her. On the next landing, the smell is stronger, filling my whole head. My body responds, heartbeat coming fast and heavy.

  This is weird shit, right? I’m following some woman because of her perfume? I should stop. I know
I should.

  But I’ve always been too curious for my own good. And I wanna know if this girl looks as good as she smells.

  I pull the door open and find myself in a hall with blood-colored walls. It’s lined with gold doors, like something from a film set. I don’t see her anywhere, so maybe I lost her. I’m kind of surprised by how disappointed I am.

  Wait! I hear something, on down the hall. There’s an Oriental runner down the middle of the hallway. I stay on it, moving fast and silent.

  I’m so hot on her heels, I catch a fresh whiff of that perfume. It stirs that something in me again—a familiarity almost like a memory. How do I know that damn smell?

  The hall continues straight, but there’s another one that intersects. I look right then left, and there she is up ahead—standing between the wall and a tall potted plant. Hiding, I think.

  Then she’s off again, her pale dress trailing behind her so she looks a bit like a ghost. I duck behind the same big, leafy plant and hold my breath, sure someone is chasing her—but no one appears. Instead, she morphs into a dark blot at the end of the hall. It’s so dark, it looks like a black hole.

  I can’t shake the feeling she’s fleeing, hiding from someone. It’s a feeling I know myself—and I hate it. Coupled with the bizarre warning I just got from Roberto Arnoldi himself, I feel worked up enough to jog after her.

  The darkness is an open door, a door into a pitch-black-dark room, which lights up as I enter. It’s a coat closet—more like a coat room, really. And there are stairs in one corner.

  I swallow, listening.

  “Be careful what you get involved with. I would hate for you to close doors you wouldn’t want closed.”

  Fuck Arnoldi and his fucking warnings. I follow the familiar smell to the stairs, where I find a partition rope and a sign that reads “Wet paint.”