Page 43 of Mafia King
I nod, assuming it’s the Virgin Mary in the church’s chapel. Putting flowers at her feet requires a big donation.
“Then Damiano will offer a ring. The father accepts it. The debt is paid. The matter is closed. She is his, and he may walk with her when he chooses.” His lips purse as if he’s trying not to say something. “The wedding’s a formality between him and God.” What is understood, but remains unsaid, is that the woman isn’t part of the contract with God, just the deal between the men. “They have to turn four corners together or she will not bear children.”
The night I was taken away, Santino and I walked around the block with two women following. It was romantic date and ancient superstition all wrapped into one, horrifying night.
“You didn’t miss that one,” I say.
He shrugs, but concedes. “When it comes to children, I won’t tempt fate.”
So he wants a family and will perform foolish rituals to increase his odds. All I can think is that thenonnaskissing chalices and fingering rosary beads must be on to something, because if I’m pregnant and my math is right, our first time was the charm.
“When will all this happen with them?” I ask.
“Why?”
“She’s excited. I can’t talk her—or you or anyone—out of anything. But I want her to have the things I missed.”
“Not to go against her father’s wishes or try to talk her into running from what she can’t avoid?”
“Like I said. I want it to be better for her. I want to talk about weddings. Dresses. Flowers. Let her get excited that maybe it’ll be fun and we can plan the thing.” I pick up the dishes. “That’s the deal. I don’t want her to miss what I missed.”
I bring the plates to the kitchen sink. He joins me there without a single glass or fork in his hand.
“You cannot make this go away, Violetta.”
“So you said,” I singsong to make the comment less cutting.
As I move to pass him, he grabs my arm and pulls me close.
“I remember those first days here, in my house. I wanted to kill the man who made you weep like that. Rip his guts out of him. Throw his body in the ditch where I left the boy who made Rosetta cry.”
When he admits to murder, a gallon of blood leaves my heart and flows to the surface of my skin. I’m hot everywhere, and his face is so close he must be able to feel the heat radiate.
“But,” he continues, locking our eyes, “the guts were mine, and suicide is a sin I’m too much of a coward to commit. So I let you cry, and I swore I’d never make you cry again. But the only thing worse than hearing you cry behind that door was when you held it all inside your silence.” He leans away from me a few inches—no more—and releases my arm. “I am sorry for what I stole from you. If I could give it back, I would.”
“Why would you let it happen to Gia?”
“There are things you don’t know.”
“What don’t I know?”
He opens his mouth to answer, then shuts it and takes two steps back.
“Così stanno le cose!” he cries instead. It is what it is.
Maybe he’s right, but it’s bullshit.
“Then what are you worried about?”
“That you’ll try, and I won’t be able to protect you. Violetta, my blood violet, you do not…” He puts his hands on my shoulders and meets my gaze. “You cannot understand what will happen if I stop this marriage for any reason.”
He’s right. I don’t understand anything except the raw panic and truth in his eyes.
“What if I told you”—I lay my hands on his arms—“I don’t want her to cry. Not like I did. And I know you want her to know she’s a debt bride.”
“That’s her father’s choice.”
“Damiano saw me in the hall. He knows I was listening. And I’m just a woman. A mouthy fishwife. If I see Gia tomorrow morning, and I slip and tell her… who’d be surprised?”
