Chapter 10
Aurora
When I wake up the next morning, I’m the only one in the bed. The handcuffs are gone. I hear the flush of the toilet and the tap briefly running. I guess he’ll leave me alone long enough to go pee, I think with a roll of my eyes. As long as I’m sleeping, anyway.
When the bathroom door opens, I close my eyes and feign sleep.
I don’t want him realizing I’m awake and that he shouldn’t have left me alone.
I don’t need to be handcuffed to him while he uses the freaking toilet.
Something tells me Curse would have no problem with this, if it were necessary.
Embarrassment seems to be something he isn’t capable of feeling.
I think he might be incapable of feeling a lot of things. He certainly doesn’t seem to have any anxiety about the man we killed together.
That anxiety makes it impossible to continue lying here like this. I pretend that Curse’s footsteps have woken me, and I rub at my eyes, then sit up.
“Vehicle’s here,” he says by way of greeting.
I blink at him, trying to brush away the grogginess from my thoughts.
It takes me a couple of seconds to remember that he had mentioned a new car would be delivered by one of his men.
I get out of the bed, padding to the window.
The sky is clear and tinged blush-pink with dawn.
In the parking spot in front of our room is a big black SUV.
“We’ll eat and get ready, then we’ll head to my place in Montreal from here,” Curse says.
Breakfast consists of beef jerky from Curse’s pack.
Not my typical early morning fare, but it’s a nice change from protein bars, at least. I don’t think I could eat another lemon one even if he tried to make me.
After that, I brush my teeth, use the toilet, and shower.
After I’ve showered, Curse once again makes an appearance.
“Stay in here,” he says, his hands going to his belt. “I won’t take long.”
So I have to stay in here for his shower again. Lovely. At least I’ve had time to change from my towel wrap back into my sweatpants and sweater this time.
I close the toilet lid and sit there so that I’m not tempted to stare at him in the mirror like yesterday.
I fiddle with my nails instead, putting all my focus on them.
My wedding manicure is already starting to chip, and I distract myself from Curse’s naked proximity by trying to peel more of the sheer, shell-pink polish off.
The first chance I get, I’m getting my hands on some nail polish remover.
And underwear. Curse didn’t seem to bring any for me as far as I can tell. Or if he did, it’s in his pack and he’s forgotten – or chosen not – to offer it to me.
“I need more clothing,” I say when he steps out of the shower.
And so does he.
I don’t dare look at him. I can tell from my peripheral vision that he’s standing there, naked and dripping, fully facing me. He makes no attempt to cover himself. I guess he isn’t capable of modesty, either. Or maybe he just doesn’t give a damn, because it’s me, and he doesn’t care what I think.
“We’ll get you some in Montreal,” he says. He strides across the bathroom to where I’ve hung the towel. The towel bar is directly across from the toilet, and my breath snags in my lungs when his nakedness collides with my gaze.
His back is to me, at least. But that barely helps. Because the thick, muscled lines of his legs and ass are on full display. His waist is tightly tapered from the astounding V of his back and shoulders. Every inch of him is tattooed.
I can’t look away.
He snatches the towel from its place, rubbing vigorously at his soaked hair, before he wraps it around his hips and leaves the room.
I let out a strangled sound, my heart rocketing into my ribs.
But before I can take a deep enough breath to try to restore some semblance of calm to my body, he’s back, wearing pants now.
He carries the towel with him, along with a small case.
My eyes widen when he opens it and pulls out a short, shiny blade.
But then he also pulls out a small can, and I realize it’s a shaving kit.
I should probably just leave him to it. He’s not showering now, so I doubt he’d have a problem with me going back out into the bedroom. I wouldn’t be far. He’d hear me if I tried to leave or do anything he didn’t like.
But I can’t seem to make myself get up and walk away. I’m mesmerized by Curse’s movements. The quick-but-careful, incredibly thorough way he covers his jaw and upper lip with the shaving cream. Suddenly, I’m thrown back to Sicily. Back to watching him carefully fold his things on the beach.
He might think that Accursio Giordano is long gone. But I swear I can still see glimpses of him. Of that brave and careful boy.
Or maybe I’m just deluding myself. Because I’ve missed that boy for so many years. And in my heartbreak, I’m now looking for signs of him that just aren’t there.
Either way, I stay in place, watching him shave. He draws his blade in short strokes along his cheeks, his jaw, his chin. His methodical movements combined with the rhythmic rinsing of the razor are strangely hypnotic.
When he draws the blade down his throat, I tense.
“Don’t you ever cut yourself?” I ask. I’ve never seen somebody shave with a straight razor like that.
“No,” he says, sliding it down the line of his jugular.
Of course he doesn’t. I watched how effortlessly he slit Marco’s throat. If anyone knows what he’s doing with a blade, it’s Curse.
Thinking of Marco and all that blood breaks the spell that’s kept me here. I rise from the toilet and head for the bedroom. I feel fidgety and ill at ease, like I should be doing something right now. But it’s not like I have anything to pack. The only thing I brought to this room is my lingerie.
Where is it?
As much as I’d love to never see it again, I can’t leave it here. There could be Marco’s blood on it, or a stray hair belonging to one of us, or some other evidence that I don’t want to leave behind.
When Curse comes back into the room and asks what the hell I’m doing, it’s because I’m down on my knees on the carpet, scouring the place beneath the bed with panicky eyes.
“I can’t find it!” I say. I try to get up so fast that I end up smacking the back of my head on the bottom of the bed frame. “Jesus!”
Curse is on his knees beside me at once, cupping the back of my head and guiding it out from beneath the bed.
His hand is so big. Warm on my wet hair. My scalp tingles even as my poor skull aches from the impact.
But he doesn’t leave his hand there any longer than is necessary. Once I’m sitting upright, he’s let me go and is already standing.
“Can’t find what?” he asks from above me.
“The…The stuff I was wearing,” I mutter at his denim-clad knees. For some reason I can’t make myself say “underwear” “bra” or “lingerie” to him, even without meeting his eyes.
“I’ve already got it,” he says. “It’s sealed up with the stuff I was wearing that night.”
“Oh.” I get to my feet. I should have known he’d already taken care of that.
Once it was off of my body, I completely shut it out of my awareness.
But he didn’t. I don’t know whether I should be embarrassed about not even thinking about dealing with the lingerie until now, or mortified at the thought of him handling it when I wasn’t there.
Of him carefully picking it up and packing it all away with his things. Even the dirty panties.
Of course, he doesn’t seem embarrassed about any of it. He’s got on his usual mask of cold unreadability, his eyes shuttered and shadowed.
I used to wonder, when we were children, how eyes as dark brown as his could be so full of light.
There is no light there now.
It’s only a few more minutes until Curse has his bag ready to go.
He puts on a new mask before stepping out the door, and I pull up the hood of my parka once I’ve got it zipped.
Outside, the air is deliciously crisp, the sun so bright after being inside that I have to squint just to partially keep them open.
The snow glitters like crushed crystal on the ground and on the deep green, piny branches of the trees surrounding the motel.
It's almost painfully lovely. It doesn’t feel quite right. That the world can go on being so beautiful when such ugly things happen in it.
Curse goes to the vehicle and opens the door, which has apparently been left unlocked. The key fob is waiting for him on the dashboard. Doesn’t seem like the safest place for it, considering what he’s told me about car thefts.
But then again, I can’t imagine anyone in their right mind would attempt to steal something from Curse Titone.
Plus, we’re kind of out of the way here on this country highway, away from the main metro area of Montreal.
The only reason anyone came for the other car was because Curse told them to come and get it.
Curse tosses the bag into the backseat and locks the vehicle.
Together, we walk back to the small office we checked into.
It’s not the same man as before, but a woman about the same age as the other guy, with short hair dyed a bright reddish-purple colour.
I wonder if it’s a family business, and this is the man’s wife.
I kind of hope for his sake that she isn’t.
Because she is absolutely drooling over Curse right about now, her eyes huge as they skate up and down his tall form.
She titters and smiles while she speaks to him in French.
Curse responds in French as well, though he doesn’t return her smiles.
Don’t bother, lady. I want to tell her to save her energy. I don’t think Curse Titone has smiled in more than twenty years. I can’t imagine he’s suddenly going to do it here, now, at the front desk of this random Quebec motel. He’s wearing the mask anyway.
Although you’d still be able to see a smile in his eyes.
Maybe she finally stops salivating over him long enough to actually take a look at those eyes of his.
Her flirtatious chatter ceases. I glance sideways at him from beneath the fluffy fringe of my hood.
He looks like he usually does. Not angry or anything.
Just…empty. Like if you fell down dead on the street in front of him, he’d simply step over your body and keep on walking.
Because he probably would, in all honesty.
She takes the key from Curse, and only then seems to notice me standing there.
I turn away and pretend to be very interested in the various brochures on the stand, even though I can’t read the French on most of them.
There is some English, though, and I’m halfway through an advertisement for a local snowshoe and ski trail when Curse grunts at me that it’s time to go.
The interior of the SUV is quiet as he drives. He doesn’t listen to the radio. I don’t know how he can stand it. Not knowing if Marco’s body has been discovered yet. If it’s hit the news. If the police are involved and looking for us now.
Unable to take it any longer, I turn the radio on myself. Curse makes no complaints, continuing silently along the roads as I scan through channels, trying to find something that isn’t currently playing music, ads, or all in French.
I don’t land on any English news. Swearing quietly, I give up and turn it off, letting quietness descend once more.
“Don’t like any of the choices?” Curse asks, keeping his eyes straight ahead.
“I’m trying to find the news in English,” I admit. “I just…I need to know if…”
“If they’ve found his body yet?”
“Well…Yes! I don’t know how you can just not care about that!”
He lifts one shoulder and lets it drop. He’s not wearing the leather gloves today, and I finally put together all the letters on his knuckles as he holds the steering wheel. F-L-O-R-E-N-C-I-A, and then a tiny frangipani flower on his pinky finger.
“That…That name!” I gasp. My chest suddenly hurts.
“What name?”
“On your knuckles! That was your mamma’s name.”
“So you remember.” His voice lifts slightly, almost turning it into a question, but not quite.
“Of course I remember! I loved Florencia,” I say, shocked and frankly rather hurt that he could think I’d forgotten her.
I don’t remember her as clearly as I remember Curse from that time, but she’s still vivid in my mind.
Her hair, thick and black like Curse and Elio’s.
The rich quality of her voice when she spoke, laughed, and sang.
She wasn’t a classically beautiful woman with her thick dark brows and bold nose, but she was so warm, so quick to smile, that she became radiant to anyone who spent more than a few seconds in her presence.
Curse gives a nod, maybe a little tighter, a little stiffer, than the gesture usually is for him.
“I can’t believe you’d think I didn’t remember her,” I say, crossing my arms.
“Well, you sounded confused when you brought up the name on my knuckles,” Curse says after a beat.
“If I’m confused, it’s because I’m surprised to see her name tattooed on you,” I say bluntly. “You don’t strike me as the sentimental type. At least, not anymore.”
He gives another one-shouldered shrug. It’s nonchalant. Nearly flippant.
“It’s just a record of sorts. The ink,” he says.
“A record of what?”
“Of the human I used to be.”
I can’t think of anything to say to that.
And what words could possibly even matter right now?
There’s not a phrase in the world that can change the fact that the man beside me doesn’t believe he’s human anymore.
That he requires permanent signs inked into his skin just to remind him that he once was.
Curse doesn’t appear to require a reply. He hasn’t looked at me once since this conversation started. Following his example, I stare out my window, watching buildings and snowy, sunlit streets roll by. We must already be in Montreal.
I don’t know what kind of house Curse lives in, but when we pull into the driveway of a stunning red brick home on a beautiful, tree-lined street, I know it isn’t this.
“What?” he asks, sensing my surprise.
“I just…This seems so…domestic,” I say, still staring at the pretty house. It’s like a picture from a storybook. “I assumed you had a small empty apartment you were planning to stick me in.”
“No apartments,” he says. “I don’t like sharing walls with other people.”
“You don’t like sharing walls with other people,” I say sarcastically, “but you’re fine to literally handcuff me to you while you sleep?”
“You’re different.”
Before I can try to figure out what he means by that, his phone rings. He pulls it from his pocket, glances at the screen, then exits the SUV to answer it, closing the door firmly behind him.