“Not quite,” Elio says. “Apparently, there’s some upset over the transfer of assets. Marco was never specifically named in Bianchi’s will. In the event of his death, everything goes to Aurora, to be transferred to her husband after one month of marriage. But it never says who that husband has to be.”
Shit. Shit.
“So you’re telling me,” I say, dragging my free hand through my hair, “that all of the Bianchi wealth, business, and power is currently in Aurora’s name? And that it will stay that way until she’s been married to somebody for a month?”
“Precisely so.”
Well, this certainly fucking complicates things. I don’t give a shit whether Aurora has money or not. I don’t care if she’s a penniless, nameless nobody or the Queen of fucking England. It was never business that made me take her.
But it will be nothing but business for the men who will no doubt be coming for her. She’s got a Buffalo-sized target on her back that I didn’t even fucking know was there until now.
“The way I see it,” Elio says, cutting into the raging buzz of my thoughts. “You have two options. The first option involves hiding Aurora away somewhere lonely and isolated for the rest of her days. Maybe we could get her set up somewhere in Ireland, now that we’ve got connections there.”
“Absolutely not.”
I’m not sending her to another continent. Not unless I can go with her, and I doubt Elio would tolerate my absence here for long.
“That brings us to your second option.”
“Which is?”
“You marry her. Give her a ring and give her our name. If you manage to keep yourselves alive for a month, then everything will transfer to you. Of course,” he adds, “that doesn’t mean that you’ll be safe. But at least it’ll mean that you’re the new target going forward. Not her.”
“That choice works out alright for you, too,” I say, narrowing my eyes.
“Sure it does,” Elio says easily, without any guilt or shame. “I won’t say that having an American connection, and all that Buffalo business, under Titone control wouldn’t be a boon to us. But that isn’t why I’m suggesting this course of action. I’m suggesting it because I know what Aurora means to you, even if you don’t know it yourself. And, frankly, I don’t even want to know what kind of carnage you’d unleash if she was ripped away from you now.”
I don’t speak. It’s hard to breathe.
“Then again,” Elio says, “there is a third option. You could always give her to Alessandro Messina, or let one of the New York big shots have her as their wedded wife. I have a feeling they’d be a lot more forgiving about the fact you slit Marco’s throat if you’re happily handing them the keys to Buffalo in return. One of his enemies would probably even pat you on the back for a job well done.”
“You’re fucking kidding.”
“I am,” he replies at once, though there’s no hint of laughter in his voice. “It’s option one or option two, Curse. You’ve got your choice to make. But fucking make it. And make it quick.”
The line goes dead.
Chapter 12
Aurora
Curse seems extra cold and quiet when he comes around to the passenger side of the vehicle and opens the door.
“Get out,” he says, scanning the street and trees. “Keep your hood up.”
“What’s wrong?” I ask, panic firing along my limbs. My fingers start to shake.
“Just want to make sure that you’re not seen,” he says. He seems more worried about it now for some reason. And kind of cagey.
But I don’t press him on it. Keeping my hood up and my head down is just fine with me. I don’t miss the way he seems to shield me with his body as I exit the vehicle. He grabs the bag from the backseat as well, and then we head for the front door. Curse has two different physical keys for two separate locks, plus a code he taps onto a pad. Once the big door – made of solid metal – is open, he enters another code into a security system on the wall.
Then, he locks everything back up from the inside.
The inside of the house is just as pretty as the outside. We’re standing in a marble foyer with a solid wood set of stairs and a carved banister straight ahead leading to the higher floors. White carpet with pastoral blue designs runs down the length of the staircase like a fancy ribbon. It reminds me of the patterns on those old-school Dutch teapots. The white ones with cobalt windmills and flowers and birds.
Beyond the staircase is a wide, open-concept living and kitchen area, everything fresh and bright. There’s a fireplace with comfy-looking couches and chairs gathered around it.
Once again, this feels way too domestic for Curse.
