Chapter 8 #2
The tapping stops. He tosses the folder down onto a low coffee table in front of the couch.
The contents spill out as it slides my way.
I see “Ontario” printed in blue ink, followed by a floral emblem than makes me think of the frangipani on Curse’s pinky finger.
And then, beside that, the words “Marriage License.” My breath stutters, the tips of my fingers threatening numbness as I snatch the paper up.
Scanning rapidly, I take in two columns, one with Curse’s information, and one with mine.
My gaze snags on the marital status section under my name.
“It says, ‘never married’ for me instead of ‘widowed,’” I point out, flipping the paper so Elio can see what I mean. He doesn’t bother to look at it, probably already aware of the contents.
“Yes,” he acknowledges. “We’ve had our contacts look into things on your end.
It appears that someone has made every effort to ensure that your first marriage was not officially recognized.
After Marco’s body was found, your wedding officiant disappeared, along with all the documents related to the ceremony.
Your New York marriage license was never filed. ”
I attempt to swallow that new information down.
“And it wasn’t you?” I ask after a moment. “It wasn’t you trying to make way for Curse to marry me instead, without any legal obstacles?”
“No.” While I have no doubt that Elio Titone is not an honest man, and that he’d have no problem lying right to my face, I believe him when he answers. My mind is already reshuffling, slotting a new name into the forefront.
“Alessandro,” I say, my lips twisting around the syllables.
“That’s my assumption,” Elio says. He shrugs, and the movement is somewhat lopsided, the shoulder beneath the scarred side of his jaw not moving as much as the other. “Especially considering the fact he showed up here looking for you.”
“He said he was going to marry me,” I tell Elio. The words burn like bile.
Elio nods, like I’ve confirmed his own suspicions.
“I assume that, after his father’s death, he saw an opportunity to take Buffalo for himself and, at the same time, cement himself as the new boss in Marco’s place,” Elio says.
“He would no doubt have understood the terms of your papà’s will.
And he was probably the one person close enough to Marco to take care of all the legal details after the fact.
Make it look like you were never married to his papà at all. ”
“Details,” I say bitterly, “like the officiant?” I’d floated through my wedding in a detached haze, but I remembered the officiant. An old man with snow-white hair and kind blue eyes.
Elio shrugs again.
“What’s done is done,” he replies cavalierly.
“The officiant is likely dead. But this simplifies things for us. Now, we don’t have to sit around with our thumbs up our asses, waiting for things like death certificates before you and Curse can marry.
The faster the ceremony is complete, the faster Curse inherits your papà’s estate. ”
“And the faster we get divorced,” I add through clenched teeth.
I shove myself to my feet, unable to sit there any longer.
Digging my nails into my palms and chewing on the inside of my cheek, I lock my knees and stare down at Elio.
Elio, whose eyebrows have just furrowed together over the wells of his eyes.
Though his eyes and Curse’s are the same dark colour, the qualities of their gazes are entirely different.
Elio’s eyes seem to burn, hot with violent life, unlike the shuttered emptiness in his younger brother.
And he doesn’t have Curse’s beautiful eyelashes.
“Divorced?” he repeats, confusion carved into every inch of his expression.
“Yes,” I hiss back. “That was the deal. I remain married to Curse for thirty days, so that he can get access to papà’s estate in order to transfer it all to you. Then, we end the marriage. Go our separate ways. Never see each other again.”
Elio watches me from his seat, the earlier ease in his frame vanished. He’s sitting up straight, alert, his leather-bound fingers drumming on his knee. “And my brother agreed to this?” he asks, disbelief thick in his reply.
“Yes!” I begin pacing the room, if only to keep myself from stomping my foot like an idiotic child.
Why is Elio so fucking confused by this?
And why do I find his reactions so infuriating?
“Yes,” I say again. “That was what Curse agreed to! Trust me, he doesn’t want to stay married to me any more than I want to stay married to him. ”
Something about my words rings false in my own ears.
Maybe in Elio’s, too, because he narrows his eyes and opens his mouth to speak again.
I don’t wait to hear his reply. I don’t want to.
I stop my pacing and spin around to leave the room – to go eat, or go pee, or go find a fucking pillow to scream into, maybe – and I walk right into a wall.
When I gasp and nearly fall, the wall grows fingers to grab me.
Because, of course, the wall is not a wall, but Curse.
His hands are locked around my wrists. His damp hair curls in perfect, glossy locks over his forehead.
With his chest bare as it is, my eyes fall there, tracing the hard planes of muscle, the damp skin lacquered in ink.
The tattoos don’t stand out with such a stark contrast today because he’s regained some of his colour.
I’m so relieved to see it that I want to bury my face directly in his chest, breathe him in, memorize the sound of his heartbeat.
I can’t, though. Curse’s hold on me is not only holding me up, but holding me away from him.
There’s about a foot of space between us, and the muscles in his arms – the hard biceps, the corded forearms – are tensed.
If I tried to get closer now, I’m certain I would meet resistance.
I hate the way that it still stings. I’d thought I’d learned by now. Learned that he didn’t care about me. Didn’t want me. Certainly didn’t love me. But then the train happened. And now I don’t know what the hell to think. About any of this.
For now, I’ll have to stick to the guidelines of what we’ve established. No matter what kind of mess our relationship might be, we still have to get married as soon as possible.
“So, when’s the wedding?” I ask, tugging at my hands. Curse lets them go at once, then studies my face with those blank, black eyes.
“How’s your head?” he asks, as if I haven’t just spoken.
I feel my nose crinkle with my expression of annoyed confusion.
“Nice way to change the subject,” I reply with a roll of my eyes.
But then, panic slices through my irritation, launching my lungs into overdrive.
Has he changed his mind? Maybe last night showed him just how dangerous holding onto me would be.
Maybe he’s decided that this isn’t worth it. That I’m not worth it.
What a joke. It was never about me to begin with. It was about Buffalo. And that has to be worth it…
Doesn’t it?
What if it’s not enough?
“My head is fine,” I reply, rattled. If Curse reneges on our deal, then what?
Will he just hand me over to Alessandro Messina himself?
Or will Elio have me marry one of his soldiers instead, somebody else he’s willing to put on the line who can eventually transfer the Bianchi estate to the Titone name?
It’s selfish to even ask myself these questions.
Curse nearly died. For a month after our marriage is official, he will be at risk.
And that’s only if Alessandro doesn’t keep hunting us for revenge once the monetary reward of having me is no longer within his grasp.
If anything, I should be the one trying to get out of this marriage. To protect him.
I never want something like last night to happen again.
But apparently, Curse isn’t too worried about that. He gives a single, controlled nod, then says, “We’ll stay here today so you can rest and I can make final arrangements. Tomorrow, we leave. We’ll head north and get married on the way.”
“We can’t just do it here? Now?” I ask. I get why he’d want to leave Toronto after Alessandro tracked us here. But why not get the ceremony part out of the way?
It feels weird to even call it a ceremony. Curse is talking about this all so perfunctorily that it seems the very opposite of ceremonial.
“As much as I’m aware that you want to begin the clock on your thirty days with me as soon as possible so that it may therefore end as soon as possible,” he says flatly, “I’m not parading you around this city to get married while Messina is at large.
We haven’t found him yet. And I’m sure as shit not bringing anybody into this fucking house to do it. ”
“So we’ll just stop along the way to say, ‘I do?’ Simple as stopping for gas, or getting coffee,” I reply with a shake of my head.
But Curse only shrugs. “Pretty much. Like I said, we’re going north. We can stop in Barrie tomorrow morning and get it done. Leo and Robbie will escort us that far and act as the witnesses. Then, you and I will continue on alone.”
“We’ll keep looking for Messina here,” Elio says, rising from his seat near the flameless fireplace. “We’ll let you know if we find him.”
“No,” Curse says, his eyes going over my head to meet his brother’s. “I’m not bringing a phone. Nothing that can be tracked.”
“At least bring a burner,” Elio says. “We can get you one within the hour.”
“No.” Curse says again, and though he does so with his typically emotionless intonation, there’s a solidness to the word, like it’s made of stone instead of breath and sound. Like there will be no cracking it, breaking it, toppling it. Or him.
“And how long, exactly, are you going to be off the fucking grid for?” Elio asks.
Elio isn’t just Curse’s brother – he’s his boss. Curse had duties in Montreal. Alliances to keep in check. Bikers to make behave. It’s a role that he’s completely abandoning now.
“At least thirty days,” comes Curse’s instant reply.
In Elio’s eyes, I suppose getting Buffalo in the end is enough to make up for a month without his brother, because after a short sigh, he mutters, “Fine. But find a way to keep me updated somehow so that I know you’re both alive.
” I think I hear a slight smirk in the elder Titone’s voice as he sweeps out of the room and adds, “Send me a goddamn postcard.”