Page 63 of Mafia King
“You were pretty upset.”
I have several choices to make here. I’m not sure which one is the least painful for this young beauty illuminated by sunlight, red-cheeked from grief, and I decide that though the whole truth would be cruel, a lie would be worse.
“It was scary.” I go into the room first and put the plate of cucumber slices on the night table. “I hadn’t been away from home before. Not even to stay in the dorms at school.”
Focusing on my boring history of sleeping arrangements is the most innocuous angle I can think of.
“I’ve been away from home for a long time.” The way Gia says it—the coldness that settles over her—worries me. Before I can lead her on and change the subject, she sits on the bed facing the windows that overlook the pool. The sunlight on the water glints up at us.
“Here.” I pat the bed. “Lie down.”
She does and closes her eyes, folding her hands across her chest. Her next words come out as a whisper. “I won’t be scared.”
You should be, Gia. You should be terrified.
“Of what?” I feign ignorance and put the cucumber slices over her eyes.
“Our first night. Because Dami’s nice, Violetta. He really is. And he has a house halfway up the hill with a view. And a Cadillac. And he said his businesses are doing really well, but he didn’t want to brag. And somehow it’s all ruined.” She sucks her lips between her teeth. “I don’t know what happens to me now.”
Downstairs, the security sensor on the front door beeps, then keys clack on the front table.
The man of the house is home early.
“We’ll figure it out.” I throw a blanket over her. “Just rest here for now and we’ll talk in an hour.”
Santino’s footsteps cross the living room, probably on his way to the kitchen to look for me.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
“My pleasure.”
Quiet as a secret, I tiptoe from the room and close the door. On my way downstairs, Santino’s deep voice crawls in from the backyard. He’s on a phone call, pacing the circumference of the pool.
I open the sliding glass door just enough to slip out, then gently close it. Santino stands on the other side of the pool, legs apart, large and imposing, a statue under the high point of the sun. He looks like an angel. An angel of death, perhaps, but an angel nonetheless. He’s speaking in rapid Italian, the kind my inexpert ears can only pick up every few words of—likedebtandescrowandflowers, and names like Damiano and Marco are especially clear.
But his gaze tells me more than words in any language.
He’s not happy with me.
“Si. Ciao.” Santino drops his phone in his jacket pocket, looking at me across the water.
“You’re home early,” I say.
“Where’s Gia?” He crosses his arms.
“In my room.”
He looks up at the windows I’ve often stood behind to watch him swim.
“She’s taking a nap,” I add. “She’s very upset.”
“Of course she is. You smashed her flowers.”
“So?”
“You fucked up her life.”
“Fucked—what? No, no, no.” I stomp around the pool to his side, ready to throw him in if I have to. “Totally unfair. I’m trying to save her and you know it.”
