Curse stills. I get the sense he’s suddenly watching me much more closely.
“No,” he says slowly. “Why are you asking about Elio?”
I frown, then shrug. “Because I know he’s been in charge since Vincenzo Titone’s death. And I know you do his bidding. So if you’re bringing me to Montreal, I assumed it was because he told you to. Because he sent you.”
A muscle in his jaw tightens. His eyes scan me, like they’re looking for something, but for what, I couldn’t say. Eventually, he just shrugs, too.
“Elio is in Toronto. His wife Deirdre is pregnant, so he’s staying pretty close to home these days. I’m out here to keep the peace after all the shit that went down at Valentina’s wedding.”
“Oh, to Darragh Gowan? I heard that she married him.”
But he shakes his head.
“No. Her first wedding, the one in Montreal. To Sal di Mauro. Bikers shot the place up. Killed Sal and got Uncle Vinny pretty good. Since taking over, Elio has brokered a deal with them that’s keeping everybody’s blood mostly inside their bodies these days, but who knows how long that’s gonna last.”
“So to make sure everybody’s behaving, he’s got you out here?”
He nods, but none of this really answers my question. None of this tells me how New York, Marco, my wedding, me all fit into the picture.
“You’re not handing me over to Elio, then?”
I don’t think I’ve seen confusion or surprise on Curse’s face in more than twenty years. But his eyebrows twitch with it now.
“No.”
“What about Darragh Gowan? Or to a biker in Montreal?”
It hadn’t occurred to me before that I might be some kind of bait or prize to keep an MC boss happy in this new deal Elio has struck. But it does now, sending ice into my veins.
There’s tautness around Curse’s eyes. Pulsating tension in his jaw and shoulders.
“No, Aurora,” he says with a quietness that feels like a warning. “I’m not handing you over. I’m not giving you to fucking anyone.”
Chapter 9
Curse
Aurora and I don’t speak much for the rest of the evening. We each eat a couple more protein bars and drink some water. She spends a lot of time flicking through the TV channels while seated in the armchair, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. I spend a lot of time thinking. Thinking about what’s going to happen when we get to Montreal.
I’ll have to have somebody watching her at all times when I’m away from the house, the same way Elio did – and still does – with Deirdre when he’s not at home. But though I have more than a few men I could call upon for the task, I’m not sure I’d trust anyone enough to do it. The only one I’d probably trust with Aurora is Elio, and he still doesn’t even know I’ve got her. I’ll have to figure that out quickly. I can’t leave her alone in my house the same way I refuse to leave her alone in this motel room. And I can’t bring her with me on all my business. She’s already watched me kill too many men. Besides, it would be too dangerous. She doesn’t need to get dragged through the mud and the blood of Montreal’s underworld.
After sleeping much of the day, neither of us are ready to turn in early. But a little after midnight, I tell Aurora to lie down. I don’t think staring fretfully at the TV, obviously waiting for a news story of her husband’s murder to pop up, is doing anything good for her. I don’t even want her to think about him at all anymore. He’s dead. We’re alive. We need to keep moving on.
Though I am aware that most normal people can’t move on from a violent murder the way I can, especially when they feel responsible for it, which I know Aurora does. Even now, she’s blaming herself for what went down. And waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Aurora looks at the bed with trepidation and a little bit of longing. Sleep can be an escape from your mind, from everything. And I think she recognizes that fact. She asks about a toothbrush, and I produce one for her, along with toothpaste, from my bag. It’s pink. I don’t think I chose the colour on purpose, but now that I’m handing her the toothbrush, I can’t deny that it’s the same shade as the pink stripes on her bathing suit in Sicily.
So is the parka I bought her.
When she returns from the bathroom, I’m sitting up in bed. My left wrist is cuffed. She freezes when she sees that.
“Not again,” she whispers. “How long are you going to make me do that?”
For as long as it takes to know that she won’t do something goofy and fuck us both in the process.
For as long as it takes to not feel like someone’s peeling all my nerve endings apart at the thought of not knowing where she is for one fucking millisecond.
I don’t think that latter one is going to change anytime soon. I’ve spent more than two decades without her. Not knowing what her day-to-day life is like. Not knowing what colour she’s wearing, what coffee she’s drinking, what shampoo she’s using. I’ve kept track of the broad strokes of her life, of course. Easy to do with a man as powerful and influential as her papà was. I know that she studied literature and library sciences in university. I know that she spent years working in the Buffalo library system.
