Page 106 of Mafia King
“They’re coming to get me on the way. I didn’t have to beg too hard.”
“Everyone has to hear you say it,” I say, looking at my watch again and finding no surprises. I pace back into the house. “Do it for me.”
She playacts her story, complete with teary gasps and hiccups. “Santino? Hey, it’s me. Can you meet me at home? Then I pause like I’m listening.” She pauses. “In the bathroom, I was gushing. Bleeding so much. It was terrible. Please come home. Please.”
She can pull this off. I have no doubt. But the minutes between now and when she’s picked up are critical. A loud grind and a hard smack come from the other side of the house. I go to it. The man putting the lock on the basement door curses and drops something heavy.
“When are they getting there?” I ask.
“Should be five minutes?”
It’s eight o’clock. The lawyer is an hour away, and our appointment is at ten. Damiano will be here in half an hour. The airport is forty minutes away from my house. I calculate everyone’s placement on the map and how long it will take to put all of them into place.
The locksmith heads for the front door.
“Where are you going?” I ask him.
“I need a different size. I think I have one in the truck.”
“You think?”
He shrugs, and I can keep him there to yell at him or let him go check, so I turn my back on him.
“Everything okay?” Violetta asks.
“Is Armando there?” I ask.
“Yeah, hang on.” She gives him the phone.
“Boss.”
“The minute they pick her up, I want you to get over to Vito, in the city.”
The locksmith is standing in the back of his truck, still empty-handed, so I may have to keep my guys here to nail the fucking door shut behind Damiano, but yeah, everything is fucking fine.
“Leave the house alone?” Armando asks.
“You there to protect the furniture?”
“They’re here!” Violetta’s voice comes past Armando’s agreement that no, he’s not there to protect the furniture.
“Verify it’s them, then do what I asked.”
“Got it.” He hands the phone back to my wife.
The locksmith is in the back of the truck, checking another compartment.
“Forzetta.”
“My king.”
“Today will be tricky,” I say. “Things might go wrong. If you asked me a month ago if I could trust a woman—even my wife—to do what we plan today, I would have laughed.”
“You would have been an asshole for it.”
The locksmith jumps off the truck bed with a box in his hand, and my body can barely contain the relief.
“Please be careful today,” I say. “If one hair on your head is hurt, I’ll use the fire of hell to burn down heaven.”
