Page 44 of Mafia Bride
He’s not Dami anymore, and I’m sure as shit not Santi.
“Drink up,” I say as he rubs lemon peel on the rim of his cup at theMille Luci. “Then we can cut the shit.”
“You wouldn’t poison me in your own place.” Damiano pours Sambuca into the coffee.
“I wouldn’t poison you, period.”
“Yeah.” Damiano pounds it back, pinkie raised, and clicks the cup back into the saucer. “You ain’t that bright.”
“Obviously.” Poor Damiano never got over the day he stopped being better at everything.
“You got to the Moretti girl,” he says. “I know you pulled her outta her aunt and uncle’s place and took her to St. Paul’s. You’re counting down the days to her birthday, same as everyone else.”
I coil tighter than a serpent, limbs ready to spring. My sister used to say I was like a duck: frantic on the inside, smooth as glass on the outside.
“Violetta’s my wife now.” I said the rest like a man exchanging news. I didn’t need to issue threats. That was a sign of weakness. “Under God and the Church. You don’t have to count, because she’s not yours. She’s mine and no one—not you, not any of the Tabonas—are going to touch her.”
“Okay, sure.” Another theatrical shrug. “But have you ever thought, in that fucking pea brain of yours, that marrying her puts a target onyourback?” He pushes the espresso cup away. “The next guy can drag her in front of Father Fonz.”
“You the next guy, Dami?” I make sure to stress his old pet name.
He rubs the scar on his face, eyes dark and clouded.
“Nah,” he says. “I got respect for the institution of marriage, what I’m saying is…there are guys here and back home…all talking this kind of shit. I’m just warning you outta respect. Your life ain’t worth shit now. I can’t keep the Tabonas off you for that long.”
Do I believe him?
Partly.
There’s a target on my back, and there are plenty of ambitious men willing to take their shot at a bullseye. The warning is real. Redundant, but real.
“Thank you, my friend,” I say, holding my hand out.
“I miss you,” he says, shaking.
“The same.” We join in a back-slapping hug. Neither one of us fully believes in the affection of the act.
“I was thinking,” Damiano says, lowering his voice. “If we joined up…”
“Me?” I cut in, refusing to believe he’s suggesting I change to a rival family. That’s more than a target on my back. It’s suicide. “With the Tabonas?”
“Just us.” He moves his hands between our chests. “You and me. Like the old days. I mean, what’s all the trouble about? It’s four generations of dead guys fighting over something so old we don’t even know what it is.”
“We don’t?”
“We don’t, and you know it. But we take it together? Who’s got what to fight over? We make our own family, the way it always shoulda been.”
He’s pitching peace without acknowledging the war it’s going to spark.
“Thank you,” I say with a pat to his shoulder. “I cannot do it that way.”
“If something happens to Violetta…” He levels his gaze as if this is the crux of the entire offer. “I can protect her.”
Sliding my hand up his shoulder, I grip the back of his neck. It’s all muscle he spent years building when he should have been working on the brain above it.
“She’s mine.” I shake him in a way that could be a threat or could be affection. “Whether I’m alive or dead, she’s mine to protect.”
“You can’t protect her from the grave, you dumb fuck.”
