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I'm not sure I want him to.
The stairs creak under his weight. I listen to the familiar pattern of him going up to the little loft room, then hear him pause before the last step.
"I was always going to come back."
His voice is a low rumble. It's cultured in a way that I never expect. Marco is, after all, a gangster.
He shouldn't talk like he's a fucking prince.
The stairs resume their squeaking, and I listen to him move around upstairs. I haven't taken out any of his clothing or anything, since I wasn't sure what to do with it.
Or were you hopeful that he would come back?
I slam the thought away, mentally trying to make sure that I don't entertain anything so foolish as that thought.
Marco didn't come back to resume the little charade we'd been living.
He came back for business. To keep his word.
He comes down the stairs again, and heads to the couch.Quietly, he pulls the couch bed out and begins to put sheets on it.
I watch him.
Finally, Marco turns to look at me. The silence between us is so thick, I can feel it pressing down on my ears, clogging my ability to hear anything.
Finally, he licks his lips, and I'm embarrassed at how quickly the gesture makes me blush.
"You should go to bed. The hearing will be early," he grunts.
Then, clearly dismissing me, he turns.
I can take a fucking hint, and I have enough pride to keep myself from saying anything else.
I turn on my heel marching up the stairs. I may have a million questions right now, but I know one thing for sure.
Marco De Luca may have come back.
But he sure as hell didn't come back for me.
The journey to Dublin for the hearing is so awkward. In order to preserve his status in witness protection, Marco will arrive at the hearing separately, but it's my job to complete the hour drive and drop him off with Seamus at the meeting point. Then, I'll park, go to the office and get into my official Interpol-sanctioned court attire, and meet them there. Marco's identity will be preserved, and he'll give anonymous testimony about the incident in Belarus, as well as the new developments of the explosion at a café in Amsterdam, to a panel of solicitors and judges.
We don't speak on the way there.
And, the sound of the silence is absolutely killing me.
Marco is invading all of my other senses. I swear that I can feel the electricity of his presence on my skin. I can smell him, and it just puts me back to our last night together. The sight of him out of the corner of my eye makes me want to just turn and stare, narrow Irish roads be damned.
Finally, about five minutes before the drop off, I can't take it anymore.
"Marco. Talk to me."
He shifts, wincing like my words have some kind of physical impact on him. The silence stretches, endless and twisting.
Finally, he huffs. "I have nothing to say to you, Roisin."
I've always been annoyed by the fact that he won't use my nickname.
But now, I just miss the way he used to say my name. Like a benediction.