Page 76 of Mafia Bride
Santino shrugs and bobs his head a bit. “Some here, some there, seven years.”
“What?” I gape at him, shaken from my sleepy stupor. “Jesus!”
“I’m going to wash that mouth out with soap.”
“You led her on for seven years? Then you dump your blood-soaked wife in her house?”
“Hey! She was engaged to my cousin Elio for two years of that.”
Unbelievable. “And you broke them up?”
“No.” He goes straight. Not somber, not serious. Stoic. “She loved him. He was killed two years ago. Assassinated.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say, but he waves my condolences away.
“Loretta never recovered.”
I let him distract me from his own pain over his cousin. He doesn’t want it, so my heart wrenches for her. I know what it’s like to have someone you love murdered. I only saw the photo of my dead parents that was plastered all over the Naples newspapers for a few seconds, and that was all I needed to never forget it.
My parents lying on the sidewalk, caught in the crossfire of a robbery. Mom was faceup, turned away, Dad was facedown as if kissing the ground. They were in separate pools of blood. My mother’s encircled her head like a halo, with the splatter reaching for my father’s like a desperate hand. My father, facedown, the back blown out where the bullet exited. There were three others, shot dead for the contents of a cash register I’m sure my father would have emptied for another chance at life.
Rosetta hadn’t been able to stop looking at the pictures. She had that day’s newspaper in her suitcase when we came to the States. She’d hidden it in our closet. Sometimes, I would wake up in the middle of the night to find her under the covers with a flashlight, staring at the newsprint until—she said—Mommy and Daddy looked like they’d exploded into little dots. It was as if she could wish that ink off the page and into the three-dimensional shape of our parents.
No, neither my parents’ deaths nor Rosetta’s had anything to do with Elio. But I felt it just the same. My life. Zia Madeline and Zio Guglielmo’s. And Santino. My husband. Any one of us could be killed at any time.
I can’t find the words, so for the rest of the car ride, I stop looking for them.
Had I put not just myself in danger when I ran? Had he almost gotten killed? He and how many others were in danger every day? Guilt weighs on me, raw and sharp. I was born into this world. How could I not know the stakes?
I’m not stupid enough to run again. The next time I run, it’ll be to my death, one way or another, and only my death. They all know I know it.
I open the bag next to me and get my shoes out. Guilt might be a ball and chain holding me in place, but I don’t need to be carried into the house like a weightless child.
There are men with guns all over the property. From here, with my eyes wide open, it’s obvious I live in more of a compound than a Lego house, and I’ve never been so glad to see it.
Santino turns to me, reaching between the seats to stroke my cheekbone with his thumb. “You’re safe here. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
To my surprise, I do feel safe with him. His thumb brushes my lips, and my eyes flutter closed, imagining—despite the revulsion accompanying the desire—that he’s kissing me.
“No one will hurt my beautiful blood violet.”
The moment lasts forever. I let myself get lost in gratitude, falling into darkness where I accept my powerlessness and embrace his protection. Having a man to deal with the ugliness of the world for me, so I can pretend to only see the beauty. Zia always said this was the way we lived and that was it.
When he takes his hand away, it’s over, and I’m back in a life I hate.
When we get out of the car, Santino barks orders at the men. Everyone moves quickly and efficiently. They don’t look scared, but they don’t look comfortable either. Maybe because I’m in a nightgown and sneakers, but probably because the object they’re committed to protecting is home.
Santino takes my bag and leads me upstairs. He doesn’t carry me this time.
“Where are we going?” I ask as if I don’t know, and he’s silent as if he also finds the question redundant.
We’re going up to my prison.
Together in my room, there’s a pause heavy with sexual tension, carried almost entirely in the fierceness of his eyes.
He throws the bag on the bed.
“I told you not to run, and you did,” he says, delivering old news but with a new twist. He’s not just telling me what we already know. He’s coiled to do something about it, and I know it’s going to hurt. I won’t be able to resist. Here, in this room, he has all the power.
