Page 12 of Cursebound
“Pretty sure she does, yeah.”
“Could you scent it? Was she faking it, or was she really wet for you?”
My fist tightens around the phone, and I force myself to relax before it shatters. To not destroy the stupid device because Matteo said the wrong thing.
“Boss? You okay? You’re, uh, hissing at me there.”
“Yeah? Well, it’s a good thing you aren’t here with me, pal, or your head would be up your ass right now. Literally. Don’t ever talk about her like that again, you understand?”
“No, I don’t understand. But I think there’s a problem. You want me to ask Minnie to look into this? Because this don’t feel like no little crush to me. It sounds like you’ve lost your fucking mind. You need to get away from her and get back here.”
He’s probably right, but the thought of being away from her—of leaving her out here in danger—makes me feel like something is breaking inside of me. It’s like the world’s worst fucking headache, except it’s all over my body.
“Get Minnie to take a look, yeah, if she can do it safely. And in the meantime, get the house in Brooklyn ready. I might need it soon.”
“Whatever you say, Luca. Just don’t do anything stupid, okay?”
Aware that I can make no promises on that front and feeling like I’m made up entirely of stupid, I hang up. My brain isn’t working right, and it took Matteo suggesting to ask Minnie for help when it should’ve been my first thought. When there’s extra-weird shit going on, Minnie is the gal to have on your side.
Minnie—real name Minerva—is a full-blooded witch who skipped out on her coven and came to work for Vincenzo back in the 1970s. Nobody knows what he had on her to make her do something so reckless, but she’s possibly the only person who isn’t scared of the Don. She’s also the person who hates him the most, yet she stays and works for him, not using the power we all know she has against him. It’s a puzzle, but one for another day.
All that matters is that she’s an ally. She’s even a friend, as far as friendship can stretch in the hellhole we call home, and if she gets the chance to put one over on our boss, it makes her day. Maybe she can find out why I’m feeling like this, because it sure as fuck doesn’t feel natural.
I kept half an eye on the door while I was talking, and Rosa still hasn’t come out of the bar. Even with my eyes closed, I’m pretty sure I’d be able to scent her the minute she set foot outside. Her scent is unique—an intoxicating blend of lemons, spice, blood, fear, need, and heat. Fuck, I’m getting hard just thinking about it.
The door to the place opens, and I narrow my eyes on the goth couple. I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m long gone, away in a cloud of vamp fury, but what if she’s playing it extra cautious and planning to shield herself with humans? Doesn’t seem like her style, but anything’s possible.
They stagger down the steps, and I’m relieved that my instincts are spot-on when she doesn’t follow. She must still be in there, maybe planning to close the place down.
I tell myself to be patient. Steady. Give it more time. Better to catch her unaware, knock her out long enough to get her back to New York. Despite what I said earlier, she is a fierce opponent, and a physical altercation could get messy. She could wind up hurt, which is exactly what I’m trying to avoid, regardless of what she thinks.
The door opens again, and a lone man trots down the stairs, phone in hand. After him come two women, laughing and walking arm in arm. I stare at the door, waiting, waiting, and… Nothing. It must be almost five a.m. now, and I need to keep an eye on the time. The shitty weather is doing its best to pretend otherwise, but it’s summer, and the sun will be up before too long.
The lights in the bar go off. What the fuck? If the place is closing, where is she?
I jog across the road and slam into the door. It’s locked. That won’t stop me, but I hammer on it with my fists first. The guy who was running the place yells, “Okay, okay.” He opens the door and glares out, aiming for intimidating, but he can’t hide his quick gulp when he sees me. I’m over six feet tall, big all over, and capable of ripping his head off with one hand. A man in his line of work has probably spent years assessing threats, and he sees one right now.
“Where is she?” I growl without touching him. I don’t need to—he’s backing right up. There’s a flicker in his eyes as he tries to decide whether he can lie to me, and I wonder what she told him.
I give him a firm shove in the chest to help him make up his mind and follow his backward staggers into the dingy room. It smells of stale beer and cleaning fluids. And prey.
Pushing him against the bar, I use my eyes to show him that he’s in trouble. He stares at the red ring around my pupils and starts to shake—a whole-body tremor that’s echoed by his accelerated breathing and pounding heart. My nostrils flare at the scent of his terror. It smells good, and if I weren’t pressed for time, I might be tempted to indulge.
“Where is she?” I repeat, my face an inch from his. “I won’t ask again.”
“She… went out through the cellar. Under the hatch behind the bar. She said she had to get away from you because you were gonna beat her again. She’s only a little thing, and she’s scared of you. You should be ashamed of yourself!”
Despite his fear, the puny bartender manages to put some snarl into his voice. He thinks I’m a bully, a woman beater, an abuser. I might be all those things when I need to be, but not tonight. Tonight, all I want is to protect her. The irony of her lie is not lost on me.
I decide I won’t kill him. I won’t even hurt him. In his own way, he’s braver than I am. Holding his face in my hands, I stare into his frightened eyes. His fear shifts and I sense his confusion. He hates me, but he’s kind of turned on as well.
“As soon as I’m gone, you’re going to close the cellar hatch and forget I was ever here. You’ll forget she was ever here. If you have any cameras, you’re going to erase all footage from tonight. And you’re going to carry on being a decent human being, okay? Do you understand?”
He rubs his cheek on the palm of my hand. Yeah. He’s definitely feeling something other than terror.
“Yes, I understand,” he murmurs, swaying against me.
I stand him upright, pull out a couple £50 notes, and leave them on the bar. He watches as I walk behind the serving counter and find the hatch to the cellar in the center of the floor between the glass washer and the beer fridge. I open it and jump right down, dispensing with the stairs. The hatch clunks shut above me, and I imagine the guy upstairs picking up the cash and wondering what the fuck just happened.