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She bids me goodnight. But it sounds like goodbye.
Chapter 50
Brioni
I haven’t felt like this since my mam left. I’m so emotionally drained that the feeling of something as strong as sadness would come as a relief.
I drag myself through the motions of my old routine. For the first few days, the only communication I have with Liam is a handful of texts about the logistics of me moving out. Whenever I have to use my phone, my mind flashes to that creepy smile on my frozen screen. But I’ll never be frightened by Harrison again. Because Liam broke his promise to me.
He insists on packing up my stuff and delivering everything to my house himself. I’m too mentally exhausted to argue, so all I do is agree, but I make sure I’m out running when he comes over.
Since I have a guard tailing me every hour of every day, I know Liam’s informed of all my whereabouts. He could have lingered on my porch if he wanted to. But when Gus and I get back from my unnecessarily long run, it’s just my boxes and suitcase waiting for me.
I stare at the bleak cardboard for several minutes, preventing Gus from carrying them inside. I just want to look at them, willing myself to feel something that isn’t emptiness, hoping the sight of these boxes might trigger tears.
It doesn’t work.
I bake an apple pie and bring it over to Orla, my lame version of an apology. Even though she put immense effort into planning the wedding, she waves away the last-minute cancellation as no trouble. I try to feel horrible about it. Guilt usually comes so naturally to me, but not this time.
When I go to confession, I recite my sins the way I’d recite the Pledge of Allegiance. I list things I should feel bad about, but I neglect to tell Father Ryan that I feel nothing at all.
Over the bleak first week or so, Antoine and Cora are equally supportive, albeit in their own ways. Antoine tries giving me time off, but I need work as a distraction. When I go into the shop, the dress form with my wedding gown has disappeared, along with every scrap of lace and silk and tulle that had been cut out for its creation.
As if it had never been.
Making alterations for customers provides me with temporary relief, but only because it requires my focus. When I sit down at my sewing machine, its whir doesn’t soothe me like it used to.
Cora, for her part, takes me out to bars that are well outside of O’Sullivan territory. Since we’re always flanked by at least two guards, I give myself permission to drink more than I should. In my emptiness, drunk is better than numb.
One evening, as Cora and I stroll downtown, she slips on the icy sidewalk. With a shriek, she falls into a bank of shoveled snow, laughing at herself. Gus, unamused, approaches to help her up, but she tells him she’s okay. As she tries to push herself back to her feet, she slips again, this time grabbing Gus’s sleeve and bringing him down with her.
They both land in the snow, neither of them hurt by their cushioned fall, and Cora bursts into more laughter. Gus spits out a string of expletives so vehement that I can’t help but laugh too. It’s almost entirely fueled by the alcohol, so dense on my breath I’m practically breathing whiskey. But laughter is such a relief, no matter how artificial.
I can barely breathe as I brace myself against a lamppost, watching Cora and Gus still struggling to get up, when a chilling voice floats through the night air.
“Glad to see you so well this evening, Miss Timmons.”
Every muscle in my face goes slack as I turn to face Seven Vanleusen. Gus is on his feet, beside me in an instant. As is Pete, our other guard for the night.
I grab Gus’s arm to hold him back, while Pete hovers between me and Cora, trying to help her up without taking his eyes off Seven. She’s done laughing. We all are.
“Mr. Vanleusen,” I say coolly. I’m not slurring, but my accent comes out stronger than I’d like. Given that he’s only a couple feet in front of me, Seven can probably smell my breath. He’s dressed in crisp designer winterwear that’s been tailored to look edgy, and flanked by two obnoxiously large guards who loom behind him like henges.
With Cora back on her feet, it’s now a standoff. We outnumber them four to three, but given how drunk I am, if this showdown turns violent, I’m a liability to our group.
Ignoring Cora and our guards, Seven gives me a sarcastic bow.
“I was sorry to hear about your broken engagement.” He clucks his tongue. “Really, if Liam O’Sullivan can so readily break a promise like that, who’s to say what other promises or treaties he might break?”
A lump of something cold and hard sticks in my throat. In my half second of silence, Cora takes a threatening step toward Seven. Automatically, I slide in front of her, placing myself in the middle of the brewing conflict. My instinct to de-escalate, to avoid mafia violence, takes over.
“I was the one to break the engagement,” I tell our enemy. “Not Liam.”
It’s none of Seven Vanleusen’s business, but if he uses our called-off engagement to break his peace treaty with the O’Sullivans, people will die. Horrifically.
“Oh?” he says pleasantly. “Does that mean the two of you ended things on good terms?”
“Of course.” Whiskey roils inside me, and I resist the urge to clutch my hand to my stomach. Seven grins at me like a shark.
