Page 79 of Mafia King
“You want an annulment then?” he asks with a calm that makes any answer seem consequence-free. It isn’t. But what he’s trying to tell me is that I can say yes, and whatever the consequences may be, they will not be imposed by him. He looks me right in the eye. “Yes or no?”
This is not a test. It’s not a drill. It’s not sarcasm or an offer he’ll snatch away.
He’s serious.
I can end this thing with him.
I can be free again.
All I need to do is say yes. I want an annulment. The sooner, the better. While the sheets are as clean as my conscience. Before there’s a child involved.
But the dashboard clock changes and still—locked in his gaze—I say nothing, because I don’t want to end this marriage. Not now, because I need to stay close to Gia, and maybe not ever, because I want, with all my heart and not a bit of my head, to stay close to him.
Santino’s trap isn’t the traditions or the threats anymore.
I’m living in the prison of my own feelings.
He isn’t offering me an annulment. He’s offering me a choice.
He’s laying everything he has on a single bet, and he’s going to win.
19
VIOLETTA
I leave the car without telling him what I want because even though I know what I want to say, I don’t want to say it. Once I do, the words can’t be unspoken and the offer won’t be made again. If I want to leave, I’ll have to run away.
“I need to know now,” he says once we’re alone inside his house.
“I’m not letting it go,” I reply. “If I stay, don’t expect me to let what happened to me happen to anyone else. I don’t want to make your life a living hell, but I might have to.”
“Old sins have long shadows.” He tosses his keys on the table. I’ve never seen him miss, but this time, they slide over the surface and clap to the floor. He doesn’t pick them up. “Every day, I wish I was more for you. I forced my way in, but I can’t force you to stay.”
“It’s not about me anymore. She’s terrified, Santi.”
He holds out his hands, a gold ring on each fourth finger. The crown ring is modest on the back side—indistinguishable from the wedding band on the left. He’s offering me what he has. Nothing. He can’t help me because he’s helpless. He has no power to do it. Both hands are tied in gold.
I lay my hands over his.
“I know.” He looks down at our clasped hands. “Those first days… I couldn’t see you. I couldn’t let myself.” He won’t look at me, just at the gold bands that decorate our fingers.
“Help me end this,” I whisper. “You’re not a bad person.”
He waits for the qualifier—the “but” before the twist of the knife. Instead, I leave the statement unarmed.
“You should be careful.” He cups my face, close now, his words of caution lighter than a breath. “When the devil caresses you, he wants your soul.”
“Maybe you’re the one who should be careful.”
His lips meet mine before my last word is finished. The soft pressure of his mouth doesn’t demand a response. It doesn’t even ask. The kiss is not taken from me, nor is it willingly given. When our mouths open together, nothing is exchanged, neither consent nor command, because what we create can never be owned or stolen by either of us. It is ours—woven from our in-between space, from the warmth of our bodies escaping through the cracks in our hearts.
More than our wedding, this kiss is a sacrament.
“If I release Gia,” he says, “will you forgive me for not releasing you?”
“I do forgive you. But what if I didn’t?”
“I’d release her anyway.” With another kiss, he presses me against the wall, the gentle vulnerability of his mouth turning hot and hungry.
