I have to ask him.The very person who uttered the words in the first place.
I wonder if he remembers that scene the way I do.If he can picture it as clearly as me, only seeing my own face instead of his.It’s pretty unlikely.I haven’t even remembered this specific moment until right now.
“Where did you hear that phrase?”he asks me, never stopping to look my way.His eyes are as dark and focused as ever, staring out the windshield.
“I don’t know,” I say.He’s lied to me before.Two can play at that game.“I don’t remember where I heard it.I just want to know what it means.”I pick at my nails, then blurt, “Consider it a wedding present for me.”
“A wedding present.”He repeats it with such scalding condescension that I want to wither into myself.But this is too important.I don’t know why.It just is.
“Yes.A wedding present.Surely, I deserve that much,” I bluff.
“What you deserve…” His words trail off, and he lapses into silence so thick that I’m convinced I’ll never get my answer.I repeat the words internally, trying desperately to memorize them, so that one day I can uncover their meaning for myself.It’s foolish, I know.But even if Accursio is well and truly gone, I’ll get to have this much of him.Some new fragment of memory.It feels like a gift, even if Curse scoffs at the comparison.
Come l'ala di un angelo.Come l'ala di un angelo.
I think the words so many times that they begin to take on a rhythm of their own, like a second heartbeat.I’m so caught up in the pulsing poetry of it, the meaningless sounds of the syllables, that when Curse speaks again – and speaks the exact words from inside my own head – I’m completely caught off-guard.
“Come l'ala di un angelo,”Curse utters.The voice is all wrong, so much deeper than the memory.But the accent, the pronunciation, is just the same.“It means, ‘like an angel’s wing.’”
A hot lump clogs my throat.Tilting my head, I let it rest against the window, allowing present-day Toronto with its buildings and cars and lights to filter in and replace Taormina.Eventually, we’re out of the dense parts of Toronto, swapping city streets for highway driving.There’s barely any traffic at this hour – at least, not in the direction we are going.There are more vehicles going south, travelling to Toronto, than north.When I mention this to Curse, he tells me that we’re not actually going north yet, that this highway runs east-west, and we’ll be changing to another highway soon.Explaining the flow of traffic, he tells me that it’s a weekday, and they’re commuters.I didn’t have a clue what day it was until this moment.Normal things like calendars and clocks seemed to stop mattering the moment Marco died.
We continue on, eventually shifting north and swapping to the other highway, which Curse calls “the 400.”When I twist in my seat and look out the windows, I find the navy sedan with Leo and Robbie following.Other cars follow, too, and I try not to think about the fact that any one of them could hold Alessandro.But even if he’s not here, now, his eyes are in my head.Just like his father’s.Just like his great uncle’s.My pulse shudders, and my fingertips tingle with numbness that I try to relieve by curling them into my palms.
Curse is highly alert as we drive, no doubt also keeping Alessandro’s possible whereabouts in mind.No one does anything odd while we drive, though, and the further we get from Toronto, the more I think we might actually be successful in evading him.He hit his head pretty hard in that car accident.Maybe he’s still recovering somewhere.
But where?
And for how long?
How long will I be looking over my shoulder, plagued by yet another Messina man?
The landscape rolls by, apathetic to my questions.Subdivisions and trees and snow-scuffed farmland.It’s too early for the sun to rise at this time of year.Instead, the land is all shadow and silver.The further north we get, the thicker the snow on the ground.By the time Curse pulls off the highway and starts weaving through downtown streets, the snowbanks are nearly as high as the roof of the car.We get lots of snow in Buffalo, too, so this isn’t totally foreign to me.But I’m surprised by how much more snow there is here than Toronto.We haven’t been driving that long.The clock on Curse’s dashboard tells close to six in the morning.
“Where are we now?Is this where we’re stopping?”I ask, taking stock of where we’ve ended up.
“Downtown Barrie,” Curse says.“Pretty sure there’s at least one church that’ll be open right about now.Or, if not actually open, somebody will at least be there setting up.”
“Setting up for…for the wedding?”I thought he hadn’t booked anything in advance.
“No,” he says.“Setting up for the morning.Putting out food and coffee.The overnight shelters will close down soon.”
We enter an intersection that’s perched partway up a hill.Down the hill and to my right, the road approaches and then curves around the shore of a large lake or bay.There’s still ice on the surface, topped off with snow, the whole thing looking more like a moonscape than a body of water.We don’t turn right towards the lake, but rather left, heading further up the small hill before turning again.
It’s not long before we see a little church with lights illuminating the windows.It’s a small but lovely red brick building with a tower, pointing like an arrow into the early morning sky.The windows are pretty, one of them huge and circular, with panes spoking out from the centre, reminding me of a giant, numberless analogue clock.Curse pulls into a streetside parking spot then turns off the engine.But he leaves the doors locked, twisting to reach into the back and retrieve his bag.Once it’s in his lap, he pulls out a gun, resting it on top of the bag, and waits.
I flinch when two men approach, but it’s only Robbie and Leo.They seem to be making a sweep of the street, leaning over to check the windows of any cars parked nearby, ducking into alleyways and driveways.It’s only after they return and give Curse the signal that he finally opens the door.I go to do the same on my side, but Curse stops me.
“Wait until I’m out,” he says.With his bag on his shoulder and his gun hidden somewhere on his person, he stalks around the front of the vehicle to my side.When he opens the door, he keeps his body very close to mine as I get out.
We’re parked across the street from the little church, and Curse keeps one arm locked around me as he hurries me across, flanked by Robbie and Leo.Robbie reaches the front doors first, only to find them locked.
“Lights are on,” Curse says.“Somebody’s home.”
He doesn’t wait for that somebody to come an unlock it, though.He does it himself from the outside, so swiftly I don’t even see how he accomplishes it.Robbie enters first, his hand at his hip, ready for trouble.Though what trouble he expects to find in this sleepy church on the quiet, pre-dawn downtown street of this city, I couldn’t say.While I’ve still got Alessandro in the back of my mind, I highly doubt he’d be lying here in wait for us.That’s probably part of the reason Curse didn’t book anything.So that there wouldn’t be any pre-wedding paper trail for someone to discover.
“Hello?”A middle-aged woman with a bob that’s coloured yellowish blonde at the ends and grey at the roots is standing in a large foyer area.As Curse predicted, she seems to be setting up a breakfast buffet of sorts.Two large plastic tables are covered with fruits, donuts, muffins, and packaged snacks, as well as a case of water bottles, plastic cups, and a large travel container of coffee, the kind with a spout that you get from a coffee chain for events.
“We’re not open yet.I could have sworn I locked that door…” The woman says.She’s wearing a comfy-looking purple sweatsuit, plus an adhesive name tag that says Tammy on it.
