Page 18 of Mafia King
I’ll be surprised if I ever see her again.
5
VIOLETTA
Santino holds open the passenger door of the Alfa Romeo. As soon as it slams closed behind me, the summer students in shorts and tanks seem like children, and University Square seems like a movie set. It’s all real to them, but to me, it’s no more than a tangible dream I’m cut off from ever living.
Santino gets in beside me and drives away, his wrist dangling over the top of the steering wheel. Will this be the rest of my life, I wonder? Will I always be seduced by a man I despise? Will my body, mind, and heart always be at war?
Rosetta, tell me what to do here.
But no response comes from her or anyone else, dead or alive. There’s only Santino.
Finally, I say, “Did we miss church? Sorry about that.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t lie to me.”
I didn’t lie exactly, but pointing that out won’t do me any favors. He and I understand each other. I’m playing a game and he’d rather I didn’t.
My phone buzzes with a text—Scarlett.
—YOUR HUSBAND IS SOOOOO HOOOOOTTTTTT!!!!! —
Don’t I know it.
—I was afraid you’d think it was weird—
I don’t clarify what “it” is.
—I would have snapped him up too. You need to have his babies now. Like, now—
I shake my head and put the phone back in my bag.
“What?” Santino asks, navigating the light street traffic to the bridge over the river.
“She likes you.”
He slows at the merge to the bridge entrance and gives me a glance.
“Scarlett. She thinks you’re handsome.”
“And what do you think?”
The wood boards clap under the tires, then quiet as we get to asphalt.
I think God Himself made you specifically to torture me as penance for some grievous sin I haven’t committed yet.
Instead of saying that, I shrug. “Genetic lottery, I guess.”
There’s a pause. He doesn’t seem inclined to comment on his genetics or Scarlett’s thoughts.
But I can’t help myself.
“My sister got all the best genes too.” I say it, and despite my better judgment, I complete the thought out loud. “Didn’t keep you from killing her.”
His silence gets stonier, and I wonder how far I have to push him before the hardness shatters into a deadly hail of information, each confession a shard hot and sharp enough to end us both.
* * *
