Page 41 of Mafia King
“I swear it.” He pauses and gathers the control I know him for. “On my mother, it’s not tonight as far as I know.”
“Do you rule this shit town or not?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Find out for sure!”
I cut the line and throw the phone on the seat. I’m not letting the days get by me like this again. I’m putting Gia in my sights and keeping her there.
Armando’s phone dings. He looks at it and starts the car.
Our eyes meet in the rearview.
“Go, if he says you have to,” I say. “I don’t want you to get into trouble.”
He waves to me. When I wave back, I’m shaking.
* * *
Celia and I prepare dinner,then I send her home with a wink. I put on lipstick and give my hair a quick pass with the curling iron. I wear jeans and a blouse. Generic. Not distracting. I barely have time to get dinner on the table before I hear the front door beep, then the sound of his keys hitting the front table.
“Santino,” I say.
“Forzetta,” he says as he comes in. We stand on opposite sides of the foyer.
“Well? Did you find out?” I ask.
“I did.”
“And?”
“It is just a date. Like I said.”
I close my eyes to hold back tears of relief.
I still have time to break the chain.
My eyes are still closed when I feel his lips on my cheek, then my mouth.
“Thank you,” I say. He takes me by the chin and I open my eyes.
“Are you feeling all right?” He’s inspecting me, and I wonder if he can see the contents of my body better than any pregnancy test. I step toward the kitchen before he can tell me the truth of what I am too frightened to know.
“I’m fine.”
“Armando says you went to the store today?” he asks in the kitchen, rolling his sleeves over his tight, olive-skinned forearms. On the counter in front of him are the 2 and 0 candles I got at the drugstore.
“I did.” I take the chicken from the oven.
“You went to the drugstore for birthday candles?”
“Yes,” I reply, chipper as a bird.
While I get dinner on the table, he changes clothes and washes his face. When he comes downstairs, he smells of soap and fresh cologne.
“If you want wine, I put the white in the fridge,” I say. When he nods and brings it back opened, long fingers grasping two glasses by the base, I realize my mistake.
“Say when,” he says as he fills the second glass.
