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I can already tell I won’t get what I’m looking for tonight. Deirdre’s face is pale under her smattering of freckles, and she’s trembling. I see what this night has done to her, what I’ve done to her, and I force myself to let things lie for now.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell her. “Stay here. When I get back, I’ll take you to your room.” Just before I head for my bedroom’s adjoining bathroom, I close the last bit of distance between us and drag my leather-bound fingertips along her jaw until her blue eyes meet mine. “Don’t even think of trying to run, Songbird. I’ve got soldiers stationed all over this house.”
Her eyes flash, but she nods against my fingers all the same.
Chapter 9
Deirdre
Elio disappears into a massive adjoining bathroom. He leaves the door open, and I hear the sound of water running. While he’s gone, I take quick stock of what’s around me. We’re in a gigantic bedroom – probably his. Like the rest of the house, the room is done in natural wood and grey stone, with accents of dark iron. The bed is huge – bigger than any King I’ve ever seen – its frame rectangular and metal. The space is cool and clean, and would almost feel industrial if not for the warm colour of the wood and the weirdly homey touches. Homey touches like bookshelves by the bed, lined with tomes on politics and history and art and…
Music.
There’s an entire shelf devoted to books on music, musicians, and theory. Some of them appear to be Italian books on opera and other traditional music, but my stomach drops when I see that most of the music shelf is taken up by books about violin. Violin masters, violin makers, books about how to play violin, from beginner to advanced.
What the actual hell is going on here?
Maybe Elio has some kind of music obsession, specifically violin, and that’s why he wants me. But there are far more accomplished players in Toronto he could have chosen, pro violinists he could have simply hired instead of kidnapping an amateur one at the stroke of midnight on her twentieth birthday.
Near the bookshelves the theme of music continues to dominate the space. There’s a massive sound system built into the wall, and I quickly realize that there are surround sound speakers along the ceiling and in the corners of the room. There’s a record player, too, and a small shelf of CDs. The CDs seem out of place to me. Elio doesn’t seem like the type to engage in just slightly out-of-date technology. I feel like he’d either be playing the oldest, most expensive vintage records in existence, or else listening to music digitally. I don’t get close enough to look at what albums he, for some reason, has collected in CD format. Instead, I force myself to keep looking around the room to see exactly what I’m dealing with.
There are four doors leading out of this room. One is the door we came through from the hallway. Directly across from that door is the bathroom door, which still stands open. A quick glance tells me that Elio remains out of sight, and I still hear running water. I wonder if he’s taken off his gloves to do whatever he’s doing, then remind myself to focus.
The other two doors, one on my right and one on my left, are closed. I assume one is a closet. Maybe the room has two closets? That seems like it would be a thing for an excessively wealthy mafia titan.
So, right now, the only sure way out is the door we came through.
But he has men everywhere. He told me that himself. I lean my head out of the room to see a man dressed in all black stationed at the top of the stairs Elio and I came up before.
Shit.
As I straighten up and turn to face the bedroom again, my phone bumps my thigh. He told me it wouldn’t be of any use in here – does that mean there’s no service?
I keep my eyes on the open bathroom door as I gently place down my violin and bow and slide my phone out of my pocket.
I want to weep with relief when I see that I have full bars. Along with about twenty-five unread text messages from Willow. A quick look at the last few texts confirms that at least some of what Elio told me about my father was true.
12:48am: what the hell did your dad do???? hes on the outs with fucking everyone!!! no wonder half the usual crowd didn’t show up tonight. apparently darragh is tearing toronto apart right now looking for him AND YOU!!!! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU???
12:49am: my dad is freaking out that we were at your place tonight. if he finds out im texting you i can say goodbye to my phone. if that happens ill find another way to contact you.
12:51am: please, please tell me youre ok
It’s 1:38am now, and there’s nothing else from her, which makes me think Paddy probably did take her phone. Willow is a fighter, and there’s no way she would have stopped texting me in a situation like this.
I take a shaky breath and remind myself there isn’t anything she can do for me right now, anyway. It’s safer for her if she stays away. Clearly, my family is now completely blacklisted by the leader of the Irish mob. Darragh Gowan doesn’t forget and he definitely doesn’t forgive. There’s a reason he’s called Mad Darragh, and it’s not because he’s some mad lad, life of the party sort of guy.
Dad, where the hell are you?
The idea that he can fix this, that he’s even still alive, feels dimmer and dimmer. I want to weep again, but this time it isn’t with relief. I swipe viciously at my eyes and then, before I can talk myself out of it, I dial 9-1-1.
I hold the phone so hard against my ear it hurts. When the operator answers, “9-1-1 emergency services, do you require ambulance, police, or fire?” her voice seems way too loud in the space. Cringing, I notice the water has stopped running in the bathroom. I turn my back, hunching forward, trying to be as quiet as possible.
“Police,” I whisper, heart in my throat.
A moment later, another voice is on the line, this time a man.
“Toronto police service. What is your location?”
