Barbara Baraldi - The Girl with the Crystal Eyes

The Girl with the Crystal Eyes

Barbara Baraldi

Published by

MAXCRIME

an imprint of John Blake Publishing Ltd,

3 Bramber Court, 2 Bramber Road,

London W14 9PB, England

www.johnblakepublishing.co.uk

First published in Italy by Mondadori as La Bambola di Cristallo, 2008

This edition 2010

ISBN: 978 1 84454 930

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or in any form or by any means, without the

prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in

any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published

and without a similar condition including this condition

being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data:

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Papers used by John Blake Publishing are natural, recyclable products made

from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes

conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

The fingers in the black satin gloves drum on the square table, filling the room with a muffled tune that fades into the emptiness that surrounds her. And she waits.

She sits with her legs crossed, lips red as desire itself, her blue eyes framed by lashes like a spider's web.

She glances at the large mirror with its inlaid frame, while with her other hand she plays with the golden curls falling in front of her face. The sofa is velvet, the carpet the colour of burnt earth. Finally, her eyes come to rest on the open petals of the roses in the Chinese porcelain vase, the centrepiece of the table.

They give off their perfume so generously - wanting nothing in return for the beauty they provide our senses with, she thinks.

A petal detaches itself and falls onto the shiny wooden surface of the table just as he appears in the doorway.

The tapping of her fingers suddenly stops. All that remains is silence, the silence of their exchanged gaze.

The man is wearing a dark grey suit, cut very loosely. The fabric seems to hiss as he walks towards the girl, his eyes fixed on her with the hint of a smile on his lips. He stops and puts a sweaty hand on her white thigh.

There is a ring on his finger, a symbol of some oath he no longer remembers, or that he has buried deep within his memory.

Now his smile widens, revealing teeth yellowed by sin. He can already taste the sweetness of a fruit that has been out of his reach till now.

Arousal makes him breathe heavily. His eyes, small and dark, run up and down her body, leaving behind the slimy trail of his thoughts.

'You've got no knickers on - like I asked you?'

'Of course. I'm a very obedient girl.' Languidly, she gets up and then sits down again on the table, leaning with her back almost up against the perfumed flowers. 'I adore roses. Because they've got thorns.'

'Go on, prick me. Then I'll punish you like you deserve.' And he falls on her.

Her quick, small fingers" pick up a rose. But it's not the rose's thorns that pierce the man's flesh but a kitchen knife, sharp and shining, that enters deep into his chest and then slides out again, spurting hot, dark, dense drops of blood that splash the perfect features of her face.

In and out, in and out. The blade is like a silver fish jumping in and out of the waves at dusk, leaving the viewer's gaze adrift in the water, like a thought without an end.

The end.

The blade drives in again and again, stabbing at the hands with which he tries to protect himself - in vain - then at his neck as he sinks on to the carpet, which is now the colour of death.

The roses strewn over the table bathe their delicate petals in the blood that now covers everything. The blood soon fills the room with a cloying, suffocating fragrance.

The porcelain doll wipes her face with her black gloves. She tries not to slip on the sticky pool under her feet, while she leans over and starts to go through the man's pockets. He seems to be looking at her, his face distorted by a grimace of agony.

Here's the envelope. She opens it impatiently, then smiles.

'You were obedient, too,' she says, before turning her back on him and leaving.

She takes a last look in the gilded mirror, a mirror that wouldn't be out of place in a fairytale - a fairytale that's frightening but where she's the fairest of them all. Beautiful just as she is, smelling of blood.

CHAPTER ONE

What did you get up to last night?' Viola asks, without looking at him.

He doesn't answer her, as he carries on cutting his rare steak.

'What'd you do last night?' She glances at him fleetingly. Her blue eyes appear black because of her anger, because of the doubt that has taken root inside her.

'You're so insecure. I can't stand insecure people, you know?' He pushes back his hair without putting down his fork. The fork smells of blood.

'You're what makes me insecure. I wasn't like this before I met you,' she lies.

Viola is beautiful and has a good figure, and she always smells nice - naturally. She has good skin. 'I'll ask you one last time, and then I'm going.' And she stresses every word, as if she's reciting some magic spell that will open a secret door behind which is hidden priceless buried treasure. 'What did you do last night'

He stops chewing his steak and raises his eyes from his plate to look at her. She has big breasts, squeezed into that stretchy top that she got from the 'everything two Euros' stall in the market. He still fancies her, he decides, and he'd happily fuck her right now if he could. He swallows his mouthful of steak. 'I was at Luca's, watching the match. We had a few beers and then fell asleep on the sofa, you know.' He puts a big chunk of meat in his mouth and smiles. 'That's all, baby. That's all.'

She feels able to breathe again, but her words stick in her throat, fixed there by fear.

'I don't like it when you do that,' is all she manages to say. And she covers her face to hide two single tears, the tears she never manages to hold back when they argue.

They're always the same tears; she realises that. The same tears that appear without fail every time they have a fight. Right from the first time they'd argued, the day of their first date outside the Quadrifoglio Pizzeria, when his hands seemed to be everywhere at once and she had had to stop him.

'Gently,' she had murmured. In a fit of rage, he had exploded suddenly, like a firecracker too full of powder, leaving her terrified. In the end, she had burst into tears, and only then had he calmed down and had hugged her, making a vague and clumsy show of kindness.

Marco was a truly average man. A man with clichs in his veins instead of blood.

'Would you like anything else?' asks the waiter. He has been keeping an eye on them, waiting for them to calm down, not wanting to risk losing the usually generous tip that Marco leaves when he's in good company and also in a good mood.

'Yes, a coffee. A coffee with Sambuca,' he replies. When Marco says certain words - like coffee - there's still a trace of his southern accent.

The waiter looks to Viola. She's the most beautiful of the girls he's seen with The Thug. They call him that in this restaurant because of what he looks like, but also because of the way he speaks, a bit aggressive and never showing any respect.

'Nothing for me, thanks,' she answers politely.

Marco leaves his usual tip, and winks at the waiter. That wink means he's going to sleep with the girl he's now with.

'I've scored again, Giacomi,' he always says, slapping the waiter on the back as he gets up from the table, eyeing up the arse of whichever girl he's with this time, while she heads towards the door.