Page 4 of Mafia King
He could be asking an innocent question to make small talk, or he could be taking my temperature to see how hot I’m running at the mention of my wife.
“Ask Siena.”
“Oh, yeah, I heard she came by your place in Amalfi to say hello.”
“Did you send her?”
“Why would I do that?”
I don’t know why he’d send his sister to cause trouble with Violetta and me, unless he didn’t know if it would be trouble and he wanted to find out.
Loretta comes out of the kitchen holding two cups with ice and sets them on the glass tabletop with a click.
“Look at her,” he says to me, talking about Loretta as if she’s not there. “Good as bread.”
“Tell me if you need anything.” She glances at me, then pats Dami’s shoulder.
The door clicks behind her. He pours sambuca for each of us and holds up his.
“Salute.”
“Salute.”
We touch glasses and drink.
“Now,” I say. “You can tell me what you want.”
He fixes his cuffs, rearranges his legs, lets his eyes wander like a bored child in summer school. “Your uncle Marco. On the other side.”
Marco is my zia Paola’s husband, and while my aunt raised me when my mother couldn’t, Marco allowed her to take me in, and I’m frequently torn between gratitude and disdain for the fact that he did no more. He was never a father to me, and not much of a father to Gia and Tavie either.
“What about him?” I ask.
“He got himself into a little bit of trouble with my dad.”
I try not to laugh and fail. Marco Polito has no business getting into trouble with Cosimo Orolio, who runs Napoli like our old boss, Emilio Moretti, ran territory ten times the size.
Damiano refills his glass and tops off mine. “He borrowed some money to cover a bet, couldn’t make the payments, this and that, my father picked up the loan—”
“You’re speaking to your father now? Since when?”
Damiano pauses by drinking. The ice topples into his upper lip. He wipes the cold water away with his fingertips. “Not at the moment.”
“That’s a shame.”
“They say blood’s thicker than water, but when I was thirsty, what did he offer me?” He pours a third cup of sambuca. “Nothing.Sa-fucking-lute.” Damiano slaps back his sambuca.
This is not how we do it. We are not children or animals. He’s either been spending too much time with the college kids on the other side of the river, or he’s trying to calm his nerves.
“I’m gonna bail him out.” Damiano clicks his glass down. “Marco. Your uncle. I’m taking care of it. All I need is your blessing and it’ll be paid.”
I don’t give the blessing right away, because once I do, I’m responsible for it, and I’m not interested in crossing Cosimo Orolio right now.
“And your father agrees?”
“Through an emissary, yeah. He don’t care.”
“How’s Marco paying you back? All his pants have holes in the pockets.”
