Once again, he doesn’t answer my fucking question. It’s absolutely maddening.
And just as quickly as the anger comes, it’s gone. Because I don’t want to tell him. I’ve never told anyone. Never told anyone about those hands on me in that small bedroom in Carlo Messina’s house.
Carlo said that my papà wouldn’t love me anymore if I told.
That no one would love me anymore.
I now recognize it for what it was – an empty threat. A manipulation meant to keep a six-year-old quiet by dangling the affections of her one remaining parent over a metaphorical pit of acid. He knew I was reeling from the death of my mamma. He knew that such a tactic would work.
And even though I know now that what Carlo said isn’t really true, some part of that lie has bound itself up in my being. Has shaped me in so many ways I don’t even think I could count or recognize them all of I tried.
The little girl I’ve locked in the glass cage is screaming at me not to say a word. Because she missed Curse Titone so much. And she doesn’t want to be unlovable.
She doesn’t want to be unloved by him.
“I just…I don’t like men touching me,” I say on a rush.
That’s close enough, I guess. Close enough to the truth without revealing the ugly centre.
Close enough without dragging that little girl out into the light.
Curse’s unreadable gaze rests on my face for one moment longer.
“Understood,” he says.
He returns to the bedroom. I close and lock the door once more.
Chapter 7
Curse
I listen closely to Aurora’s movements on the other side of the wall. I tell myself I’m just making sure she doesn’t puke again, or pass out. This is at least partially true.
But I also just want to know what she’s doing. I get the grim sense that I’d want to know even if she were doing nothing of interest at all. Because even Aurora Bianchi just sitting there staring blankly off into space would be of interest to me.
I don’t turn away, or try not to hear, when the stream of her urine hits the toilet bowl. She deserves more privacy and dignity than that, I know. But I listen anyway. And imagine her sitting there without her panties, those beautiful bare legs.
Bare pussy.
My cock twitches.
It’s pretty fucking unforgiveable, I acknowledge blandly, that I could be so suddenly consumed with physical lust for her when she’s gone through such a traumatic night. That I could stand there and hear her say that she doesn’t like men touching her, and still imagine running my fingers through her hair, over her breasts. Between her legs.
It probably makes me a very bad person. Unfortunately, I’ve been a very bad person for a long, long time, and I’m not capable of feeling any guilt about that fact. I try to imagine what a thing would be like, to feel bad about being…well, bad. But it’s like trying to knock down a concrete wall by blowing on it. Impossible.
There’s just nothing there. No shame, no remorse.
I’m a monster, and I want her.
But it would be like a demon bedding an angel. It’s fucking preposterous.
And she has already made it clear she wouldn’t like it. She basically bashed her own groom’s brains in tonight when he tried to consummate their marriage. I can’t even imagine how she’d react to me. Not that I’m worried about that tiny slip of a woman breaking my skull. I’m younger and a hell of a lot stronger than someone like that fat old fuck Marco Messina.
The thought of him touching her also makes me want to hurt him. Starting with cutting off his hands.
At least I got to cut his throat.
As Aurora flushes the toilet, I think about tonight. I wonder when they’ll find his body. If his men are giving him some privacy with his pretty young bride, then it might be another day or two before anyone knows that something’s amiss.
