Starling (99 page)

fire . . . It was masterful,” he said. “Did you start it?” Without waiting
for her response he continued, “White-hot flames swallowing up the
entire building. Felling the roof. Crumbling the stone. So beautiful.
I heard your screams.” He glanced back at the canvas before returning his gaze to Cass. “They were like music, calling to me. I found
you half buried in rubble.”
“Did you see anyone escape?” Cass pressed.
Cristian’s voice danced with excitement. “The fire brigade is
probably still trying to put it out. No one could have survived.”
No. Cristian was wrong. Falco might have made it. He was capable and resilient.
Or she was wrong.
And Falco was dead.
Tears fell, one at a time, carving wet paths down her cheeks. If
Falco was dead, it was because of
her.
Cass curled onto her side, her
arms braced across her chest as if she were holding her heart inside
of her.
“There’s no need to cry, Cassandra.” Cristian dabbed at the canvas. “And please stop changing positions. You are wrinkling your
dress.”
“Why am I even wearing it?” Cass asked through her tears. “Is
there a wedding I don’t know about?” She forced Falco from her
mind. As she wiped her eyes with one of her lacy cuffs, her despair
became rage. Rage became strength. Strength became focus.
“It’s the perfect outfit for your painting. And I thought you’d be
eager to see how it fit,” Cristian said. “I read in your journal about
how you had been measured for your wedding gown. It seemed a
shame for it to go to waste, so I stopped by Signor Sesti’s shop and
informed him I was a family member helping to handle your late
aunt’s affairs.” Cristian added a few more brushstrokes to the canvas.
“After all, we
are
practically family.”
“You’re insane,” Cass said. Without moving, she flexed and relaxed the muscles of her arms and legs, and then her feet and hands.
Her head was starting to clear, but Cristian didn’t have to know that.
“What do you think my dear brother will say when he unwraps
this portrait?” Cristian asked. “Will he realize that it was I who
killed you, and not the fire, I wonder? I hope so.” He bent down and
began mixing two colors of paint on his palette. “I just have to fix the
fine details. Like the color of your lips. I had it all wrong.”
“Luca is dead. He drowned in his escape attempt.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why do you wish to hurt him so much?” Cass asked. “He never
did anything to you.”
“I’m the eldest son.” Cristian gripped the paintbrush so tightly
that it snapped in half, spatters of rose-colored paint falling to the
ground. “He took
my
life.” His eyes narrowed. “Perhaps I would
have been enough to satisfy you. Unlike him. So weak.”
Cass shuddered at the idea of Cristian satisfying her in any way.
She had seen his handiwork. Mariabella and Sophia, their vacant
eyes, the circles of bruises around their necks, the Xs slashed across
their hearts. And Mariabella he had even claimed to love. If you
strangled and mutilated the woman you loved, what did you do to a
woman you didn’t?
Be strong.
Cass would get only one chance to escape.
If that.
“Even if Luca is alive somewhere,” Cass began, “he doesn’t love me
anymore. Killing me won’t hurt him.”