Page 11 of The Viper's Wife

Icy fingers squeeze my organs into a mash.

It’s probably nothing, I tell myself, even though Stefano never calls and Dad doesn’t text me. Is Mom okay?

I check under the stall to make sure I’m alone and call Stefano.

“I’m on my way to pick you up,” he says.

“What? I can’t leave. I’m at work. My shift doesn’t end for another two hours.”

“Make up a fucking excuse. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Panic thrums through me.

My family has never asked to visit any of my places of work, and I’ve never wanted them to—especially not this one. Melissa would take one hard look at my seedy brother and draw certain conclusions about my own suitability to be an impartial part of the criminal justice system.

“What’s the emergency, why are you even?—”

He hangs up.

I stare at the silver stall latch, locked shut, and squeeze my phone as hard as I can. I force myself to swallow the hot, useless emotions swelling in my throat.

And when I’m done, I turn toward the toilet to make myself throw up.

3

VALERIA

“You’re engaged.”

When Stefano and I were kids, we used to get so sleepy on road trips that we’d fall asleep on each other like a pair of puppies. Sometimes I’d wake up, and the quiet murmuring of my parents’ conversation and my older brother’s arm protectively wrapped over my shoulder would lull me back to sleep.

Now, we’re in the car again. But Mom is gone, and no one talks.

After I told my boss I’d thrown up, she let me leave work early. The moment I’d gotten into the car, Stefano told me the news. “You’re engaged.”

I’d almost laughed. I’m not engaged. I’m not even dating someone.

“His name is Nico Matassa. You’re meeting him for dinner tonight. Put on something nice.”

When I tried to argue, Stefano gripped my arm like a vice until I whimpered, and that was it.

I changed out of my polo and khakis into trousers and a lumpy old sweater. I fixed my bangs and drew on harsheyeliner and red lipstick and reapplied concealer to the mark Stefano had left on my cheek.

Stefano took one look at me and told me to put on a fucking dress.

Now he’s driving, and Dad and I are in the back seat. My tights offer practically no warmth under my knee-length skirt, and Stefano likes to leave the AC running, even in the winter.

Next to me, Dad slumps against his car door like a corpse.

Ever since he was punished by the don, he hasn’t been the same. His once perfectly pressed suits are rumpled. He hasn’t shaved in weeks. He won’t leave his room.

I used to be so scared of him. Scared he’d find out I was trying to leave the family. Scared he’d discover my money stash. Scared he’d let Stefano go too far when he was hitting me.

And now he scares me for a different reason.

Don Salvatore mutilated my dad.

The don took his left eye. His left ear. His left hand. His tongue.