27. Valentina
Chapter 27
Valentina
I wake the next morning to the sound of the TV in Mamma’s room coming through the walls. I groan and roll over, glancing blearily at the clock. It’s really early for Mamma to be up. Barely 7am.
The sun is already bright and beautiful, turning the bay into a deeper, diamond-spangled version of the sky. Trees rustle and sway, green above grey rock.
I roll out of bed, knowing I won’t be able to get back to sleep with the TV blaring. Besides, there has to be a reason Mamma has dragged herself out of bed this early. Better to find out what it is sooner rather than later.
It’ll give me something else to think about.
Something other than him.
Stepping into my deliciously fuzzy pink slippers, I pad out of my room. Mamma’s bedroom door is open, but she isn’t in it. I hear the espresso machine rev up downstairs and know that must be where she’s ended up.
I go to her room to turn off the TV, or to at least turn the volume down, when the words spoken by the news anchor glue my feet to the spot.
“The body of a twenty-seven-year-old man identified as Connor McNair from Toronto was discovered in Georgian Bay very early this morning,” the stone-faced blonde woman says from her news desk. “The victim of an apparent drowning, police theorize that McNair had a watercraft accident, as a damaged paddleboard was found not far from the scene. Police report that alcohol appears to have been a factor, and that McNair was not wearing a life jacket…”
I slam my hand against the TV’s power button, breathing hard. Is that why Mamma’s up so early? Did she hear something?
Oh. God. Was she the one who found him?
A male voice from downstairs makes my blood pressure spike. It can’t be Darragh. The police?
But, no. This voice is a familiar one. And it’s not familiar because I was hearing it in my ear just last night.
It’s Papà.
Now I know why Mamma is up.
I head for the stairs, slowing my steps in an effort to be quiet as I descend towards the kitchen. I’m close enough now that Papà’s voice is shaping itself into words instead of just jumbled sound.
“Nearly got my head blown off, is what,” he says. There’s a pause, and then a slurp, as he presumably takes a sip of the coffee Mamma made him. “The bikers out there are getting a little too fucking feisty for my liking. We’ve still got the Port of Montréal, but things are shaky. I wouldn’t be surprised if a war breaks out in the next six months. I’m going to have to start diversifying if-”
The wood beneath my feet suddenly creaks, and I swear under my breath as Papà instantly ceases. Sighing, I continue down the stairs, not bothering to be quiet this time.
“Good morning, Papà,” I say. I give him a bright smile and blow him a kiss as I breeze by.
He grunts in response, taking another sip of his espresso and draining the small cup.
“Your papà is taking us home today,” Mamma says.
“Two of my guys are outside,” he says, handing Mamma his empty cup. “Danny will drive your vehicle back, Carlotta. Phil will drive the three of us.”
Papà, who’s been sitting on a bar stool at the marble island, stands and regards me with a heavy stare. “Make your caffè and then pack your things, Valentina. I have shit to do in the city. We leave within the hour.”
* * *
Two weeks later, and you’d never guess that August ended. A September heat wave grips Toronto, making it seem like summer will last forever.
At the same time, I feel like August was ages ago. Like everything that happened at the cottage was some kind of alternate reality. Something that happened in another lifetime entirely.
I haven’t seen Darragh once since we left.
I hate how much I think about it. Mulling over possibilities of where he is and what he’s doing. I wonder if he still goes to his new property to sleep every night. That’s what he said that first time I saw him there. That he bought the place so he could “get some fucking sleep,” whatever the hell that means. Maybe he needs the sound of the waves to let him drift off.
It surprises me that a man in his line of work doesn’t know there are drugs for that.
“Valentina?”
Lucia, Giulia, and Deirdre are staring at me from their chaises longues at the side of the pool behind our house.
“Sorry, what was that?”
“Jesus, girlie. You are completely out of it these days!” Giulia says, leaning over to poke my bare shoulder from her seat.
We’re all in our swimsuits, except for Deirdre, who’s got on a flowy, long-sleeve bathing suit cover-up and a floppy sunhat the exact same shade as her brilliant blue eyes. “Elio didn’t want me to burn,” she told me when she first arrived earlier this morning.
“Sorry,” I say again, pushing my sunglasses further up my nose.
“No worries. But seriously. What is going on in there?” Giulia trades poking my shoulder for poking me square in the middle of my forehead. “Usually, you’re the one on top of all this shit. You got a man on the mind or something?”
I’ve got a monster on my mind.
“Where were we?” I say, ignoring Giulia’s question and glancing at the stack of papers we’ve got fanned out on a low glass table between us.
“Now that we’re two weeks out from the event, the venue wants the second half of the deposit tomorrow,” Lucia says from her place beside her sister.
“Right,” I say with a firm nod. “Tell them we’ve got it covered.”
“Elio’s paying for it,” Deirdre explains, tucking her bare feet daintily up beneath her bum.
“Thankfully,” I add.
Papà has been distracted and much busier than usual. I’m sure it has to do with the snippets of conversation I heard at the cottage. The bit about the bikers and the Port of Montréal. Between that and all the bratva shit I heard about after Dario’s death, Papà’s got no patience for any of our usual whims.
I was surprised he even agreed to let us get back to our usual social calendar at all. I think a part of him wants to project strength right now. And having his wife and daughter and their friends prancing around in pretty dresses and making big donations to various causes around town makes it look like everything is running along just as it should.
Even if he doesn’t have the time to write the big cheques.
Elio, though? No matter what’s going on, he’s apparently always got the time – and funds – to give his wife Deirdre anything her pretty little heart desires. She’s helping plan our upcoming event, and she even chose the recipient of the funds we’ll raise. We’ll be donating to Hearts and Notes , a local charity that gets kids into music lessons when they otherwise wouldn’t be able to afford it.
“God,” Giulia groans, picking up some of the papers and fanning herself with them. “How does it feel to be able to just be all, like, ‘My husband’s paying for it?’” She flops dramatically against the back of her chaise longue. “You are living my freaking dream right now.”
Deirdre blushes, redness spreading beneath her vivid freckles. She shakes her head and smiles, pleased but just a little shy about it. I find myself staring at her face intently. She and Elio didn’t have an easy beginning. Elio kidnapped her, for Christ’s sake.
And then he killed her father. Right in front of her.
And somehow, the two of them are stronger than ever. It’s actually insane, how stupidly in love those two are.
Even though I’ve known Giulia and Lucia since I was a kid, these days I actually feel closer to Deirdre than them. Because she knows what it’s like to get trapped in the sights of a powerful man who seems hellbent on either having you….
Or destroying you.
And somehow she came out on the other side OK.
“Alright. So I’ll tell the venue the deposit is taken care of,” Lucia says, getting back to business in contrast with her twin’s antics. “They also wanted to know if we’re still sticking with the masquerade theme.”
“Yeah, that’s the plan,” I tell her.
Who doesn’t want to put on a mask and forget who they are for a night?
“Alright. Cool.” Lucia glances at the time on her phone. “We’d better get going.”
Giulia moans in complaint, but gets up anyway. They gather their things and say their goodbyes before walking around the side of the house to where they’ve parked their jeep out front.
“I better go, too,” Deirdre says. “I told Elio I’d try making him dinner again tonight.”
“Try?” I raise my eyebrows above the lenses of my big sunglasses.
She laughs and rolls her eyes.
“I ruined the pasta puttanesca last night. I accidentally dumped the whole big jar of olives and all the brine in the little pot of sauce. It was awful. I literally only ate three bites before I gave up.”
Olives. My throat is too tight.
I clear my throat and force down the feeling.
“Let me guess,” I tease lightly, “Elio ate his entire plate with nary a complain because the beautiful goddess he married made it for him?”
Deirdre laughs again, louder this time, and I know I’m right. Good God, my cousin is so gone for her.
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly put it like that,” she replies, still chuckling. “But pretty much.”
“Thought so,” I say. She pushes her feet out from beneath herself, preparing to stand, when I suddenly say, “Wait.”
She pauses, her ginger eyebrows raised in expectation.
I lick my lips, already feeling pathetic for what I’m about to ask her. But she’s the only Irish girl I know. The only one whose family had sustained contact with Darragh before I met him.
“What can you tell me about Darragh?”
Her nostrils flares as she inhales. She presses her lips together for a long moment before answering.
“I try not to think about him.”
Same, girl. Same.
She cocks her head. Her orange braid shifts behind her shoulder. “Why do you ask?”
“I just…” I wave my hand vaguely in the air between us. “Just wondering if all these boss types are the same. I never thought that Elio would marry anyone willingly, let alone marrying for love.”
“You want to know if… What? If Darragh would marry someone?”
She looks confused, and I can’t blame her. My face feels suddenly hotter, and it isn’t from the sun.
“I don’t know. I don’t even know what I’m asking.” I’m about to tell her to forget it when she responds.
“Darragh Gowan will never marry.”
I blink at her, surprised by the firm certainty of her reply.
“How do you know?”
“Because it’s one of his rules.”
“His rules?”
This is the first I’m hearing about this.
Deirdre nods.
“He has rules. One of them is that, while he does drink, he won’t touch a drug of any kind. Not even painkillers.”
I snort.
“Sounds like Elio.”
From what I heard, it took some major cajoling to get my cousin to even bother with a Tylenol when his ribs and kidney were all messed up back in the winter.
“No, it’s not the same as Elio,” Deirdre says seriously. “Elio refuses pain meds because of a mixture of pride and a feeling the pain grounds him. Darragh refuses because of his parents.”
I lean towards her without even realizing that I’m doing it.
I’ve never heard a thing about Darragh’s parents. My mouth is so dry. Like I’m parched for any bit of information I can get about him.
“They both had addiction issues. Back in Dublin,” Deirdre says gravely. “I don’t know all the details, of course, but I do know that his mother died from an overdose from whatever shit they were taking together. When his father sobered up and saw her, he hung himself. Darragh came home and found them both.”
The heat I felt a moment ago vanishes. Goosebumps rise and dread sinks.
“What happened after that?” I ask, hoping my voice sounds steady. Normal. Like none of this matters to me at all.
Deirdre shrugs. “I’m not really sure. I believe he was homeless for a while. His grandda tracked him down and took him in. Then Darragh came here when he was eighteen.”
“His grandda? Like, his grandfather?”
“Yeah. Paternal grandfather. Callum Gowan. He was a professional boxer turned crime lord in Dublin.”
“Was? Is he dead?”
She shakes her head.
“No, as far as I know he’s still alive. He’s just not a pro boxer anymore. He and Darragh are still in contact. Callum helped fund Darragh’s beginnings in Canada. From what I understand, he put a lot of the blame for his son’s death on Darragh’s mother. Like, planted this idea that falling in love, or even just getting married, will be the death of you. Anyway, that’s why Darragh doesn’t touch drugs, even though he makes so much of his money from them. And that’s why he'll never marry. I’m certain of it. He’s made that fact clear for years. Elio even said that Darragh made up some weird poem on the spot before their boxing match. Something about how love turns men’s brains into shit.”
“Lovely,” I mutter sarcastically. Finally, the sober expression on Deirdre’s face cracks a little, and she smiles.
“You’re telling me. I’m grateful every day that I don’t have to worry about him anymore.”
Lucky you.
But I still have to. Even though I shouldn’t. Even though I haven’t seen or heard from him in two weeks. He’s burrowed his way into my brain and I don’t know how to get him out.
I’m terrified that I might even miss him.
Which is pointless. Stupid, even. Now that life seems to be getting back into a somewhat normal routine, I’ve been waiting for Papà to slow down long enough for him to tell me who he wants me to marry now. He’s been having meeting after meeting with those loyal to him.
It has to be coming.
Deidre stands and slips her feet into white sandals. I jump up and give her a big hug, which she happily returns before leaving to walk back towards Elio’s house beside ours.
I plop my butt back down on my chaise longue, staring at all the event-planning stuff still on the table but not really registering any of it.
Darragh.
Papà.
Some faceless future husband.
My future hanging in the balance, caught like a kite in a tree, but instead of branches ripping at me it’s men. And their money. And their guns.
I lean back and stretch out, forcing my limbs to relax. After a while, the hot afternoon sun lulls me enough to start drifting off.
In the hazy moments before I fall asleep, a voice as bright as lightning, distant as a dream, cuts through my consciousness.
Your papà wants to marry you off as a virgin.
Darragh can make sure that you aren’t one.
I wake with a start, the words still echoing in my head, even though it’s clear that hours have passed since I fell asleep. The sun is in a completely different position in the sky. The shadows are stretching. Preparing for night.
I’m panting, my heart pounding like I’ve just escaped a fall. A fall from my chaise longue.
A fall from a roof.
As I sit up, my head spins with a possibility I’d never considered until now.
I’ve been afraid of the idea of ruining myself, my reputation. Afraid of papà’s anger in response.
But what if that ruin is the one thing that can save me?
What if, by giving Darragh my virginity, I can escape a future marriage I don’t want?
Or at the very least, maybe I can buy myself some more time while Papà decides what to do in the fallout.
My stomach flips. My palms sweat.
It’s an insane idea. Absolutely batshit crazy.
It would mean giving more of myself to Darragh than I’d ever seriously considered before.
But it also might be the first time in my life one of my own choices actually means something.
By giving him my body, I could be gaining back some small slice of control over my own destiny.
I stand up, trying to clear my head. I’m so overwhelmed with questions and possibilities that it feels impossible to think straight. Standing up doesn’t really help, so I walk shakily to the edge of the pool, take a deep breath, and dive.
Cool water surrounds me. I don’t move my arms. I don’t swim yet. I just let momentum carry me down, down, down. When my body begins to float back up, I kick, propelling myself to the surface and sucking in a huge breath. I tread water for a moment, then swim to the ladder.
Pulling myself out, I think that I need God or fate or the universe or someone to give me a goddamn sign. A clear indication of if I’m irredeemably insane, or just a little bit reckless.
I look up at the clouds, but I don’t see anything that could be considered a sign up there.
I look down at the droplets of water dripping from my body on the flat stone that surrounds the in-ground pool, but I don’t see one there either.
I look straight ahead towards the glass doors that lead inside the house.
And there it fucking is.
There he is.
Darragh Gowan is standing in my kitchen.
I remain utterly motionless, apart from blinking pool water from my eyes. Because, surely, I am so far gone now that I am hallucinating things.
But no matter how hard I blink, he’s still there.
It makes no sense. Did he break in?
He couldn’t have. We have fences and weapons and a guard at the gate.
He can’t be here.
But he is.
Apparition.
He’s dressed in his usual jeans and a tight white T-shirt. His arms hang loose at his sides, but there’s tension in him as his gaze tracks slowly down my body, all the way to my painted toes, and then back up. My nipples go hard beneath the soaked fabric of my bikini.
I’m so stunned by the sight of him that I almost don’t even notice my father enter the kitchen behind him. Papà says something, and Darragh turns to follow him deeper into the house.
He doesn’t spare me another glance.
Like he never even saw me at all.