THE UNDYING | TWILIGHT

2. Breaking In

At eight o'clock, Michele Distefano was the last to exit the city hall, departing three hours later than the rest of his staff. A hardworking man, his constituents called him, a good man, fair and consistent in his policies. He was also a family man who dined with his wife every night and rewarded his children with top positions on his staff. Olivia, his eldest daughter and press secretary, was at his side, as he preferred her to be. They descended the stairs together, his arm draped around her back, and when her short skirt started to hike too far up her thigh, he threw her a stern look.

"Like it or not," he said, "you are a public figure now, and you will conduct yourself as such."

Olivia's lips curled into an innocent smile. "I haven't forgotten, Father."

She placed a quick kiss on his cheek, and then the two stepped into the black luxury car waiting to take them to the restaurant. As the car pulled away, two men were watching from the roof of a small café across the street, the kind of place the mayor and his family would never occupy.

"Just look at them," Vince said, staring out from beneath the brim of his black hat. "I wonder what a car that fancy smells like. It must smell nice." He looked at the man beside him. "Have you ever been in a car that expensive?"

Émile's answer came in the form of a deep affirmative grunt.

"When?" Vince asked. 

"None of your damn business." Émile glared at the car as it passed through the borders of his vision. That car was more expensive than everything he owned, and it was traveling to a place denied to people like him.

"It's bullshit," he said, his subtle French accent becoming more pronounced as his anger grew. "It's all bullshit! They say Volterra is the best city in Italy, but for who? In the past ten years, they have built two hotels and renovated four museums. Meanwhile, our neighborhood is falling into the gutter. We deserve more, no?"

Vince shrugged. "Well, we don't exactly count 'cause we're not the ones paying their salaries. We're not even citizens, technically."

Émile scowled at the scrawny younger man, and then he snatched the hat right off his head and tossed it into the wind. "When I want your opinion, I'll ask for it. Until then, keep your mouth shut."

Jaw hanging, Vince felt the top of his head where his hat once sat. "That was brand new. Found it on the bus this afternoon, sitting there all pretty like it was waiting for me."

"So steal a new one."

"I'll never find one as nice," Vince grumbled back. "I liked that hat." Asshole.

Just below them, using the darkness of the alley to shield her, Dahlia was picking through the café's trash, searching for any edible morsel of food that wasn't rotten and crawling with maggots. Toward the top, beneath a layer of paper napkins and disposable coffee cups, she found a half-eaten, coffee-soaked sandwich dipped in pastry cream. It didn't smell very good, Dahlia had to admit, and it would taste worse, but her growling stomach was very convincing.

"Dahlia," Émile hissed at her, "what are you doing? Get away from there before someone catches you!"

Dahlia stared up at him with her large brown eyes but said nothing in return, and then she brought the sandwich to her lips, ready to eat. Unfortunately, before she could take a bite and satisfy her hunger pains, Émile jumped down from the roof and slapped the sandwich out of her hands. Dahlia would have picked it back up if Émile hadn't stepped on it and mushed the bread into the ground.

"What the hell are you doing?" he growled, seizing her arms. Her biceps were so tiny he could completely close his fists around them. One good squeeze could have broken both her arms, and Émile knew that. "You don't eat food out of the garbage!"