Page 61 of Mafia Bride
“You knew they were there,” I say. “Youknew.”
How could he not? The car was ready. He had his gun out as if he was expecting it.
“Was I bait?” I added.
“You watch too many movies.” Eye contact in the mirror. He thinks this is funny, then he doesn’t, and he continues. “From now on, you’ll have a man with you when you leave the house.”
I’m beyond tired of men.
We slow to another light. He turns around again, this time with a look of genuine concern. Like a real person. “I’m sorry this happened to you. It won’t happen again.”
I’m an exposed nerve. Raw, dirtied, angry. His change in tone, his attempt to meet my gaze like a real man instead of a murderous devil, leaves me feeling guilty for a crime that’s not even against the law.
I don’t like his answers and I feel achingly, terrifyingly vulnerable and exposed. He won’t tell me who these people are. He won’t tell me why they are after me. He won’t tell me whose brain and blood are on my clothes or why his passenger-side window was shot out. Just looking at it makes me nauseous. It’s a projector screen that replays what happened over and over and over again.
Santino moved like a predator, the king of the land, who was ready to eat the heart of anyone who crossed into his territory. It appears I’m inside his purview—a queen to protect or meat for the taking.
All I want to do is curl back up into a ball and cry. I want to cry for a solid week. No food, no water, no sustenance. I could survive on sleep and my tears. I can feel that in my soul. Yet, again, I hold it all in because Santino doesn’t deserve my tears. He doesn’t deserve to see me hurt or weak, and I don’t want compassion from a sophisticated killer. Not after seeing him so ruthlessly take a life and drive away like it was nothing.
I will never be able to close my eyes and unsee this afternoon’s events. Never again.
I’m supposed to save lives. The Hippocratic oath is my personal mantra. Being a nurse meant committing my life to the betterment and healing of others. Instead, those men were maimed—were killed—because I chose to run.
The longer I stay around Santino, the worse it’s going to get.
“You’ll be all right.”
There are tiny fragments of humanity in the statement. Like he doesn’t just know I’ll be okay. Hehopesfor it as well.
I don’t want his good wishes unless he offers them fully. I’m sick of subtext.
“You think?”
He’s quiet again as we drive. He seems to be one of those guys who thinks about what he says before he says it. It’s refreshing to be around, if I’m ever being totally objective, because my zio and zia cultivated a house where people just spout off without regard for the person they’re talking to.
However, this also means we have one more thing in common and I don’t like that.
“I know it’s hard,” he starts, “the first time you see death.” The car hugs tight turns I don’t remember us taking the first time and takes off down a clear straightaway.
Is he going faster because he remembered I liked going fast? Or because he’s trying to actually kill me?
The anger curls out of me again. “My parents were murdered in the streets. It was a botched robbery but they’re just as dead. My sister died years later. I am the only fucking Moretti left from my family. I’ve seen plenty of death.”
“Si.” He nods once, long and slow. It almost looks like he was bowing his head, but that’s laughably impossible because the king doesn’t show respect to anyone but himself.
And me. Sometimes.
“But you did not witness their deaths with your eyes.” He continues, because he apparently doesn’t know when to shut the fuck up. “Having a body fall in your lap cannot be easy. But you’re a nurse. This won’t be the last time.”
I don’t tell him why this is the stupidest thing he’s said to me all day, because I don’t want to talk to him anymore. The difference between a clinical environment and the back seat of a car you were pulled into against your will is a country mile. I cross my arms and look out the window.
“That was a hard thing to see.” He’s sincere again and it makes me feel weird. “You’re very brave, Violetta.”
Why is my chest so warm? Why do I feel more tears in my eyes? Why does it feel so good to have someone acknowledge my bravery, particularly in the midst of this horrible nightmare?
“Thank you.”
“Prego.”
