Page 42 of Curse

It’s pitch black except for the faint line of light under the door. I shove the keys into my pocket and press my cheek to the cold floor, straining to see out.

The shadow of the cart moves slowly down the hall, accompanied by the faint squeak of its wheels. Then, silence.

I wait for what feels like forever, heart pounding, until I’msure the coast is clear.

Carefully, I open the door, looking up and down the empty hallway before crossing to the room where Franco is being held. I pull the keys out of my pocket quickly, and something flies out, hitting the concrete floor.

There is little light, but I easily follow the sound of skidding across the hallway: the flash drive. I forgot all about that thing. My leverage. I stick it in my jacket pocket and begin trying keys on Franco’s door.

Finally, one of them works, sliding into place with a satisfying click. I push the door open slowly.

Franco’s smug smirk vanishes the moment he sees me, instantly replaced by wide-eyed shock. I press a finger to my lips, signaling him to stay quiet, and step inside, closing the door behind me.

23

Matti

I’m awake before my alarm goes off at 6 a.m., sitting on the edge of the bed in the dimly lit hotel suite staring at my phone. The camera app is open to the view of Siena’s room at the Edge, and I’m watching her wake up like I have every morning for the past three weeks and six days that I’ve been gone.

My bag is already packed, and the sterile silence of the room sets my nerves on edge. I’m in Chicago, another stop on Aurelio’s whirlwind tour of busywork, a pointless assignment meant to keep me out of New York. And away from my little loose end at the Edge. And her asshole brother.

But Franco is the last person I want to think about right now. The only thing on my mind is Siena and the little daily ritual she doesn’t realize we have going.

On the cameras, I watch as Siena wakes up, just as she does every day at the same time. She rolls over and stares up at the little window closest to her, the sunrise barely peeking through the bars.

I always wonder what she’s thinking about when she doesthis. Is she thinking about her little house in Jersey and the plants that I’ve had someone water every few days since she’s been gone? Is she missing her job or her friends? Is she missing Emily?

Is she missing me?

I’ve had Eleanor, my personal assistant and CEO of Dragovari Tower, oversee some research into Siena over the past few weeks.

I know she’s had her shitty little Impreza for over a decade, but takes the train into the city every day to work.

I know she works as a client liaison at the Victim Advocacy Center, helping to connect victims of crimes with support and resources with two of her best friends and co-workers, Amelia and Blake.

That she eats lunch with them most days, ordering a burrito with chicken tenders and fries in it with extra guac at a fusion food truck called Vibe unless her cousin Sophie brings her food from her restaurant.

I know that she wears heels on the train but brings running shoes to work in her bag and swaps them out when she arrives, the opposite of every other woman in New York.

I asked Eleanor to have the team look for dirt on Siena, angles, what she really wants, who she’s connected with. So far, there’s nothing like that.

I’m well aware of the Bellamorte name and the weight it used to carry in our world, and it wouldn’t surprise me if she was a diversion planted to distract me from finding dirt on who took out Mikey. If she was, she’s very good at her job, because so far, my people haven’t turned up any evidence to support that theory.

As far as my sources can tell, she never went out much. Shewould go to the gym on the way home from work, shower there, and wear yoga pants home where she would heat up leftovers from lunch for dinner, drink a Guinness Stout, and binge watch reality TV until she goes to bed.

No boyfriend. No dating or hook-ups. No nefarious connections. Just the occasional night out drinking with her work friends at a random club.

That doesn’t mean she doesn’t have a boyfriend or a fuck friend in her life, a connection to the criminal world. It just means that there’s no sign of it so far based on their work hacking her phone, her cloud, her social media, and her streaming history.

I don’t care that the research is slow going. I crave every detail about her. I want to know everything there is to know about Siena Bellamorte.

On the screen, Siena stretches and rolls onto her back, sliding her hand over her stomach, then under the covers. My breathing kicks up, watching as she bends her legs, knees spread wide, and closes her eyes.

My cock is instantly hard, but I resist the urge to take it out, to follow her lead. It’s not time yet.

She opens her mouth to moan, and I turn the volume up as high as it can go so that I don’t miss it. Tugging on her breast through her shirt, she pulls on her nipple and arches her back.

I can tell when she goes from rubbing her clit to pushing her finger inside her—does she use one finger or two?—because she arches her back and moans louder, pulling up her shirt to expose her breasts. They bounce as she fucks herself, and I groan watching her, waiting for phase two.

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