Page 63 of Mafia Bride
Santino turns to look at me. The compassion is gone. The king has returned.
“Stay quiet,” he commands, shutting the engine. “Don’t ask questions.”
With the car quiet, I can hear the birds singing. So many. Like a riot of normalcy intruding on the unknown dangers of the situation.
“Why?” I ask.
“That’s a question.”
God, this man is infuriating. Still, I keep silent. I don’t want to relive what happened only moments ago, or an hour ago. I have no idea how much time has passed.
Santino opens my door and laughs at the woman he sees there.
My cheeks flame hot. “What’s so funny?”
“Violetta. You areuna viola sangue.”
I stare at him. “A blood violet?”
“The blood is yourforza.”
Forzetta.
Funny. And by funny, I mean not funny at all, because if this much blood makes me a little powerful, I don’t want to know what’s going to happen before he calls me just plainforza.
He holds his arm out for me to join him by the front door. It’s Spanish style, with a red tile roof over the portico, stained glass panels next to the door, and painted tiles underfoot. It’s as fancy as the BMW suggested. Something better than the Zs’ narrow connected two-story, but not as fancy as Santino’s house. Of course, because the king lives in a castle.
Santino doesn’t ring or knock. Just stands with me about six feet from the door. I’m about to ask if maybe we should use the doorbell when a woman throws open the door. In a simple V-neck dress, the color of the sky, she’s tall, stunning, curvy in all the places men like, glowing like a statue of Venus carved into the shape of womanhood. She looks to be around Santino’s age, in her mid-thirties, and I have never in my life felt so much like a child.
“Santino!” She has a deep, throaty voice that oozes sexuality. She runs to him like he’s the only man in the world and I’m a part of the foliage—a bush not worth acknowledging.
Santino hugs her, but holds her back from the intimate embrace she seeks. My stomach flutters a bit. She is everything I’m not and Santino pushed her away without a word. The woman pulls back and sizes me up. I feel her eyes slide across my terrible dress, all the cuts and bruises and blood. I’ve still got pieces of someone’s head glued to me by dried blood and here she is, looking beautiful and fabulous.
I want to hide behind the fruit trees, but one look at him tells me that I have nothing to be ashamed of. I’m his wife, if not his queen. So I hold my head high, which makes me feel like a bad actor auditioning for a part I’ll never be talented enough to play, but I won’t be cowed by another woman—even one this intimidatingly beautiful. For the purpose of this meeting, I am Santino’s and he is mine—which is both terribly powerful and awfully precarious.
“My God.” She finally speaks—looking at my dress. I don’t like her inference.
“I need you to keep her here,” Santino says.
What?
“How long?” she answers.
“Wait,” I say, even though I don’t know what I’m asking them to wait for.
“Until I say so.”
I hold my breath. This is not what I expected.
Okay, I expected to be driven to a field and shot. And when that didn’t happen, I expected to go home. And after that? I expected Santino would bring me to an old aunt or Gia’s house or something…anything but this woman who looks at him like she wants to strip for him.
She waves me toward her.
“Come on, then.” She turns and walks to the house, as if she expects me to follow like a trained puppy.
“Loretta,” Santino calls. She stops on a dime.
Okay, her name is Loretta. Thanks for the introduction, asshole.
