Page 30 of Mafia King
“But the rings?”
Her hand rests on the railing, and she looks at the diamond resting on the fourth finger. “And they confirmed between them… one asked like, ‘Those the rings?’ and the other guy confirmed. So I guess, yeah. That’s it. Why are you looking at me like a bear is eating me?”
A bear is not eating her.
A bear is standing over her, licking his chops, dreaming of the feast before him, and the only thing standing between him and my wife is what’s inscribed inside that ring.
You know who would have seen this danger coming? Emilio.
“What happened?” she says. “You’re white as a sheet.”
“Listen to me,” I say, trying to sound serious, but calm and in control. I am neither. “If anything happens to me, you take this ring off my finger.” I hold up my left fist, pushing out the fourth finger with my thumb. “You understand? If I’m dead, you get it off my body with your own hands.”
“Can you stop? It’s just jewelry.”
“You must promise me this, Violetta. Swear it.” Hands on her shoulders, I squeeze, bending to eye level even though I’m on a lower stair.
“What is it with the rings?”
I’m a fool to think she’ll stop asking, but I can’t tell her here. She’s not ready, and her knowing will put her in danger.
“If anything happens—”
“The rings. I know.” She nods slowly, looking me in the eye. “I swear it. You can trust me.”
I take her face in my hands and kiss her, because I do trust her.
8
VIOLETTA
In the car home, silence gnaws at the edges of the tension between us. I don’t know what’s on Santino’s mind, but I’ve settled into a gritty despair. He never promised to free Gia after what I heard, but it affected him. I’m pretty confident the wedding’s going to get unblessed or whatever. Then I have to work on making sure every other girl in this town is safe.
Without a groom ready to steal from him, I don’t know how I’ll do it. I’m not a superhero or a saint. It’s all too big, too old, too ingrained to fix. I’m just a woman. A mouthy fishwife. A thorn in the side of His Highness.
“You didn’t eat,” Santino says as we turn down the road to his house. The headlights bounce off the fog, creating ghosts that whoosh away as we pass.
“There was a lot of wine to pour.”
He pulls up to the gate, and it opens for us. “Stay away from Damiano when I’m not there.”
“Why? Because of the rings?”
“He’s a man without a master.” He stops and puts the car into park.
“Italians shouldn’t write fortune cookies.” I open my door. The dome light goes on and I should leave before I say another word, but I have no strength to maintain filters.
I get out and step up the gravel walk to the house, hopeful that greed for a diamond has saved Gia, and fearful that even after the cut lip and the infighting, the spark of friendship burns brightly enough to allow Santino to believe Damiano’s eventual denials.
“What happened after my father died?” I ask when Santino catches up to me at the front door. “With you and Damiano?”
“A king doesn’t rule more than his kingdom.”
“For the love of God. Skip the fortune cookie bullshit.”
He smiles and unlocks the door. “We’re Neapolitan. We arecamorra. We beat the fascists because we had strength without a center. Is it fortune cookie bullshit to say I’m not the only capo in the Cavallo family? Your father was a true king.” His sigh is heavy, loaded even, as he swings open the door and steps out of the way for me. “It’s truth. Damiano can serve any of us, or he can fight me for territory. He can seek power without denying my authority.”
We stand in a house of windows, lit from the outside. Neither one of us turns on a light.
