19. Elio
Elio
T his is the second morning I’ve woken up with my fiancée in my arms and it’s just as fucking perfect as the first time. There may be a hot poker of death shoved between my ribs that makes every breath an agony, but Deirdre’s here with me and that’s all that really matters.
A glance at the clock on the bedside table tells me she can’t stay here for long, though. Not if she doesn’t want to be late for class. Which if she knows what’s good for her, she won’t.
“Deirdre,” I whisper against the thick, sweetly fragrant explosion of hair beneath my chin. “It’s time to wake up for class, sweet little Songbird.”
Fuck, seeing her all slow and sleepy does something to my insides. And considering the fact that my insides are pretty fucking wrecked right now, that’s saying something. She’s so pretty, shifting in my arms, rubbing at those big blue eyes of hers.
“I told you I’m not going,” she croaks. I’ve never heard her voice first thing in the morning. There’s a grouchy smokiness to it that shouldn’t be charming.
But I’m charmed anyway. Go figure.
“And I told you that you are,” I remind her firmly. “Enzo’s probably already waiting for you downstairs.”
Deirdre sighs and scrubs at her face.
“Well, at least you’re not insisting on coming with me in your current state,” she mutters.
“If you don’t get your ass ready quick enough then that could change,” I warn her. “You are going to class and you are not going to be late today. And if that means I have to escort you myself to make sure you behave, I will.”
Deirdre wriggles free of my hold. I let her go even though I don’t really want to. But I can’t exactly tell her she’s not allowed to be late if me holding her hostage in my bed is what prevents her from being on time in the first place.
I can be reasonable with her.
Sometimes.
If I try real fucking hard.
Deirdre heads into the other bedroom, and probably the bathroom, judging by the sound of running water I hear. The toilet flushes, more water, then I think I hear the shower. But I guess she doesn’t wash her hair, because when she comes out all dressed it’s dry and tied in a long braid.
I like her hair like that. It makes me want to grab it and, I don’t know, dip the end of it into a schoolboy’s pot of ink or something. Tug on it until she’s forced to turn around and notice me.
That, or wrap it around my fist until she cries out, back arching and throat bared.
“How are you feeling?” Deirdre asks me. Her lips look red and chapped, as if she’s been chewing them.
“Just dandy,” I grunt.
I’m sitting up in bed now. Just getting into this position took a monumental and frankly embarrassing amount of sweating, swearing, and effort that make me want to get down on my fucking knees in thanks for the fact that Deirdre wasn’t in the room to see it.
The pain is a lot worse than yesterday, which is irritating in the extreme.
I guess enough of the adrenaline has worn off to let me feel the full extent of things.
And the full extent of things is pretty much shit.
I give the clock a meaningful glance, but Deirdre doesn’t move. There’s real concern in her eyes, her voice, when she says, “I don’t really want to leave you.”
Not sure I ever expected her to say something like that. I stare at her, dumbfounded, glad to be sitting my ass down so I don’t fucking collapse under the blow of what she just said.
“Go to class,” I manage to say, fisting the bedding with my good hand. “Get your shit done. And then come back to me.”
She watches me for another long moment before sighing and retrieving her school bag and laptop from the other bedroom. She pauses as she reaches the door that leads into the hallway, clutching at the strap of her bag over her shoulder, turning to look back at me.
“Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone,” she says, rather tartly, I have to say, like I’ve stuck a sour sweet under her tongue. But that bitterness doesn’t reach her eyes. They’re wide and searching.
“Like what?”
“Like dying.”
She takes a sudden, quick breath through her nose then slams the door open, disappearing through it before I can say another word.
No, Songbird. I don’t plan on dying.
I’ve got a wedding that I need to survive to see.
Which reminds me…
I grab my phone from the bedside table and activate voice command.
“Call Bruno Lombardo.”
The phone rings a couple times before I hear the goldsmith pick up.
“Hello? Mr. Titone? How can I be of service?”
“I need rings,” I tell him. “A tray of them.”
“Certainly,” he says with a slight English lilt to the word. He spent some of his time training in London. “Do you know your size?”
“Not for me,” I clarify. “Women’s rings. Engagement rings. Maybe some sets with wedding bands, too.”
“Ah. Of course. I did see the engagement announcement. Congratulazioni . Since it was announced yesterday, I assumed that you’d already procured the engagement ring from one of my other fine colleagues in the business.”
“Please,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You and I both know you’re the best in this city. Stop with the fake-humble, self-effacing bullshit and get over here. Now.”
“Ever at your command,” he says smoothly before I hang up and toss the phone down.
Bruno’s shop isn’t too far from here, and it’s less than forty minutes before I see his dark-coloured sportscar pull up to the gate on the security app on my phone.
I track his progress through the property, watching as Curse opens the case Bruno’s lugging, checking it for weapons.
Then, Curse leads him up the stairs into the room.
I look up from the security app on my phone, seeing them coming at me head-on from the doorway instead of the birds-eye view I’d had on the screen
“Mr. Titone,” Bruno says with a deferential nod.
I nod back. “Let’s see what you’ve got.” A strange impatience is poking at me.
Maybe it’s even excitement. Getting a ring for Deirdre makes this all feel so much more real.
I wish I’d had the chance to do this before she left this morning.
So that she could have gone out into the world wearing it already.
Bruno comes around to my side of the bed, not saying a word about the fact that I’m shirtless and bedbound. He’s a pro and he knows when to keep his fucking mouth shut. I watch him as he sets a large case on the bedside table and opens the clasps.
Bruno isn’t what you’d imagine when you think of one of the finest goldsmiths currently alive on the planet.
For one thing, he’s fucking young for what he’s achieved.
He’s only in his thirties, but he crafts the most exquisite shit that looks like it’s got sixty years of experience and training behind it.
His shop is frequented by the elite from Toronto and beyond.
People fly here from all over to get custom work completed by him.
His waitlist runs more than two years long.
Not for me, though.
He’s impeccably dressed in a dark navy suit with a crisp white shirt beneath it.
His ink-black hair is cut and styled to perfection.
Despite his profession, he doesn’t wear any jewellery besides a watch, and oddly, in contrast to his designer clothes, it doesn’t look particularly fancy or expensive.
He opens the case and watches my face with cat-like keenness.
His eyes at first glance look brown but are actually an exceptionally dark blue.
There’s so much sparkly shit on the velvet tray in the case that I don’t even know where to start.
I must look frozen, like a fool, because Bruno mildly asks if I might like some suggestions.
“Fucking obviously. What the hell am I paying you for?” I grunt, trying to ignore a sudden flare of pain in my side that climbs up my ribs like a ladder, burning all the way into my head.
“May I inquire as to Miss O’Malley’s tastes and preferences?”
I stare at him, furious at him for asking such a simple fucking question because the answer is, I don’t really know.
“She doesn’t wear much jewellery,” I mutter. That is actually true. Even before I took her from her house, I never saw her wearing much beyond earring studs or maybe a simple pendant at some of her violin performances. I’ve never seen her wear a ring.
“Something simple, then?” he prods. “Refined. Maybe something subtle?”
“No,” I snap. “I don’t want subtle. I don’t want anybody coming within ten metres of her without seeing my fucking ring on her finger.”
Bruno’s used to dealing with even more demanding clients than me. He doesn’t even bat an eye at my surliness. He just moves onto the next question.
“When is her birthday?”
“January first,” I answer instantly. Don’t need to hesitate or think about the answer to that one, at least.
“Ah. A garnet birthstone. A red stone,” he clarifies.
Of fucking course it is.
Bruno opens a smaller compartment inside the case. He removes a black velvet pouch, then an even smaller plastic bag from within it. Very gently, he spills the contents into an empty, velvet-lined rectangle inside the case.
About a dozen stones in shades varying from blood-red to fire orange send spangles of burning light across the black velvet.
It feels like somebody’s driving a white-hot spike through the top of my skull.
Hitting me over and over again, perfectly in-time to the throbbing at my side and in my right hand.
“Nothing red,” I groan.
Instantly, Bruno whisks the precious stones back into their pouch, like they’re rat droppings or something, not fit to be viewed.
“Do you have another colour preference? Or does she, perhaps?”
Something the exact opposite of the flame-like colours from a moment ago. Something soft and cool, like water.
Or her eyes.
“Maybe blue,” I mutter, suddenly aware of how dry my mouth is. “Or just white. Like a diamond. A big one.”