Page 24 of Be Still My Unbeating Heart

“Emilio,” Bastian pressed. “Is Matteo part of the League? Is he an ally?”

“No. He doesn’t like vampires. He can be sort of an asshole.”

“Do you think he’d hurt Luna?” Bastian asked. “Do you think he’d be capable of killing her?”

Emilio’s stare was dead-eyed. His mouth hung open.

“Emilio—”

“That’s enough,” De Luca said, his voice booming around the basement.

Bastian felt the connection snap. Emilio blinked, shook his head, then looked embarrassed as he wiped drool from his chin.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Nothing, dear,” Bastian said. “Nothing at all. We were just about to leave, isn’t that right, Inspector?”

De Luca’s stare burned hot as cinders. He looked on the verge of saying something to Bastian, then he swore and turned, stomping up the stairs.

“I think he’s upset,” Emilio said, watching him leave.

“Don’t worry about him, darling. Thanks for your help. Keep fighting the good fight.”

He squeezed the waiter’s shoulder, then went after the inspector, picking Whitby up from the stairs on the way.

“You know I hate being carried,” the cat grumbled as they went through the café, cats circling Bastian’s feet. “And you’re playing a dangerous game with the poliziotto. Are you trying to get us locked back up in the apartment?”

“I’m trying to help him find the killer,” Bastian said. “That’s all.”

“You’re provoking him.”

“Hardly! Anyway, he needs to loosen up.”

Whitby’s eyes narrowed. “Just be careful. I don’t trust him. Nobody that young should be that highly strung.”

—

Outside Micio Micio, De Luca was pacing. The sun had fully risen and the air had warmed. Bastian felt the heat pressing against his cold skin, causing it to tingle. He tugged his Wayfarers from his hair and put them on. Soon, he would have to apply more sun cream.

“Well, that was a dead end,” he said, setting down Whitby. She hopped onto the café’s windowsill to taunt the other cats through the glass. De Luca continued to pace, his throat red as he muttered under his breath in Italian.

“Is everything all right, Inspector?” Bastian asked. “You’re wearing quite a groove into those cobbles.”

De Luca faced him, blue eyes like shards of ice. “Is this a game to you?”

The tightness in his voice surprised Bastian. “Certainly not, Inspector. I want to find the killer just as much as you do. And I wouldn’t want to do anything to jeopardize your promotion.”

“I don’t care about being promoted!” De Luca barked.

Bastian frowned. “You don’t have to be ashamed, love. Solving a murder is a fabulous way to advance your career.”

De Luca stood rigid, teeth gritted. He looked like he was about to throw Bastian against the wall the way he had in the apartment, and Bastian flashed back to the feel of the inspector’s groin against his thigh. But then De Luca growled, strode a few paces, swearing in Italian, and kicked a trash can. It toppled over, spilling its contents across the street.

“Oh dear,” Bastian murmured.

Had he genuinely upset De Luca?

Bastian couldn’t help wondering what had made the man so uptight. Was De Luca always like this? Or was it just this case in particular that had wound him up like one of those tin music boxes?