Page 57 of Mafia Bride
Not. An. Option. Not anymore.
Santino gets out of the car without demanding anything else of me. His trust snaps my attention back to him, because I don’t need another word from him and he doesn’t need me to confirm I’ll do what he asks.
He was always my only choice. My only way to remain safe.
He told me that, didn’t he? Several times. I just didn’t understand. God, I wish I could go back to never understanding.
I dive into the back seat of the car, but Santino squares off with the thug. Guns are tucked back into their jackets because shooting in the streets is too risky, out here in the open. Too many innocents. Always a code of honor with these guys that I’d laugh at if I wasn’t fully fucking terrified.
Santino is an animal. He pulls the guy up by the collar and knees him in the groin. He throws him against the SUV and presses his face against the passenger window. He growls something I can’t hear, but can feel down to the nails on my toes.
He then pulls the guy’s head back and smashes it against the window, creating long, splintered cracks.
Like a textbook opening, I can see the catalogue of broken bones, the muscles torn, the nerves decimated. I can’t breathe. I can’t move.
The second guy drops to the asphalt, unconscious and broken. Half his face is covered in meat and blood. Santino walks back to the driver’s side of the Alfa, not paying the man any attention, then driving away before anyone can get a handle on what the hell just happened.
The devil, my only savior, pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, easing into the traffic he created as if he’s on his way to church on a Sunday morning.
I meet his wine-dark eyes in the rearview mirror and in that moment, I know I will never have the chance to run again.
15
SANTINO
Dio mio, she looks exactly like her father.
Those wide-set eyes in the rearview mirror do several things to me at once. They break me, they alarm me, they defeat me. It’s my duty to those eyes to protect their holder and they tell the story of my failure.
I almost lost her. Not just a woman promised in marriage, buther. The delicate little bird I’m charged with protecting. The feisty and fiery young woman who keeps me on my toes. The most beautiful creature I’ve ever encountered in this godforsaken life.
I almost lost her.
The men who tried to take her will pay, dearly. Killing them is too kind. They don’t deserve and will not be granted a quick death. They will be destroyed. Demolished. Stolen in the night and sold for parts. They will exist only in excruciating pain until I see them in hell.
Violetta didn’t ask for this life. No matter her name, no matter her family, no matter the strings that tie her to me—this debt is not hers. She will live under my protection.
Looking at her in the rearview reminds me of many moons ago, in a different car, with a different set of eyes staring back.
* * *
Emilio Moretti satin the back seat with Damiano. I was driving. This was before the big money hit, when Emilio was the only one who knew what the fuck he was doing. There was no Alfa Romeo. No big house. Just a beat-to-shit Lancia with more trunk space than seating.
We were driving down a desolate road, not a damn thing in sight—only barren fields with abandoned machinery and broken barns. Potholes colonized by rabbits. Swampy marshes ate everything in reaching distance, even the puttering of an archaic engine. Bleak shit. The smell alone stayed with me for weeks when Emilio first took me out there.
Damiano hadn’t had a first time yet, and he shook so hard he rocked the car.
“Come on, Dami. Don’t worry.” Emilio clapped him on the shoulder. “Sing a song with me.”
That was Emilio’s answer to everything—sing a song with me. Old folk shit from the toe of the boot that had enough Arabic tones to make you listen just to make sure you had the right song. His rich baritone filled cars and offices and parking garages and empty warehouses. He did it especially when nasty shit was about to happen and knew some of the guys had weaker stomachs, or it was their first time.
That’s what you did. You’d sing a song with Emilio. You’d get the fucking job done.
Dami, though, he was never around for the singing. He made a name for himself by muscling his way through the gig, throwing around weight and weapons and hot-shit talk. He didn’t have to put weight behind his words. Threats were his specialty, we had others for the follow-through.
Tonight—that night—there were no others. It was only Dami, Emilio, and me.
He took a special shine to us, Emilio. Called us the sons he never had. The brothers he always longed for. He was taking care of Dami. Trying to soothe him. Sing with me. Pay attention to me instead. This way, Dami, this way.
