Page 25 of Mafia King
Wait. Marco is the father? That makes his daughter the bride.
Gia.
Holy shit. They’re selling Gia.
I clench my fists. The palms are already wet.
“But did you consult me about this deal?” Santino asks Marco. “No. Did you ask me to find a good match on this side? No. Did you ask me about Damiano? What kind of man he is? No. You did not. Anyone else in the four corners of my territory offering a bride in payment without coming to me first would wake up spitting their lungs. But you think you can get away with it because you’re my uncle?”
“You’re denying him?” Damiano asks.
“Have I refused you, Dami?” Santino’s gone from threatening to patronizing in under a minute. “Have I even asked you why you’re paying this debt from under your father’s nose? Eh?”
“No.”
“No.” Santino gets up and walks around the room, pacing the circumference of the table as the men wait. He stands in the archway, facing the window.
Our eyes meet in the reflection. He rubs his chin then flicks his hand again, shooing me away.
I hold up my middle finger.
He turns to face the table. “I did not refuse my blessing, but you forget why the blessing is necessary in the first place. It’s my job to ask questions.”
“She’s not with child,” Marco assures them. “She’s pure. Clean. Nothing.”
“She works for me,” Santino says. “I’m better aware than you of what she’s doing all day. I question why you”—he looks at Damiano—“don’t want to tell her.”
“He doesn’t want to get her hopes up,” Marco says.
Santino doesn’t move his attention from Damiano. “I didn’t ask you, uncle.”
Marco jabs his cigar in his mouth. I’m surprised by how little power Gia’s father seems to have at this table.
“Maybe I’m turning American,” Damiano says. “I want to get to know her a little first.”
“You don’t trust she’s what her father says?”
“Sure, I do. But I don’t want to end up with a mouthy fishwife.” He looks Santino up and down, and though the reflection isn’t sharp enough to reveal every detail, I can tell it’s a bold, insolent stare. “It happens to the best of us.”
Santino’s pause weighs four tons. It’s a knife cutting through time, splitting it and filling it with dark unknowns no one is willing to uncover with an interruption. I don’t know how he does it, but I hold my breath until he speaks.
“Did you want to say something about my wife?” he says.
“Please…” Marco squeaks, wringing his hands.
“No?” Santino says. “Yes? Say it plain, for Gia’s sake… so I can cut your dick off before the deal is done.”
“Do it!” a younger voice chimes in. Brash. Angry. One of the men standing in the shadows comes forward—Gia’s brother, Tavie. My God, he’s watching these talks? He’s hardly a damn man.
“Mi dispiace,” Damiano apologizes, stroking his hair back so everyone can see he’s not dismissing his own apology with horned fingers.
“And your bride’s father,” Santino says.
“Forgive me, Mister Polito. I am sure Gia was raised correctly.”
Marcohmphswith a nod, as if the half-hearted apology is powerful enough to erase an offense to his daughter.
Oh, my sweet Gia is trapped from all sides.
