Page 51 of Mafia King
“She’s young.”
“She thinks she’s living in a TV show.”
“Come on,” he says, still trying to pull me, but I’m not moving. “She won’t have to work. She’ll always have what she needs. Won’t have to worry about anything. Who doesn’t like someone taking care of them?”
“Who doesn’tlike? Are you fucking kidding me right now? Have you always had that disgusting silver spoon in your mouth? Someone always around to wipe your ass so you cannot see how deeply, deeply fucking flawed and awful this is? No? No, you had nothing? No, you were powerless? No, you busted a hundred asses to get what you have and now you’re going to fuck over your own cousin to keep it?Eh?”
He says nothing to my tantrum. He says nothing because the neighbors sticking their noses through their beaded curtains can hear. He says nothing about the cruel injustices that nearly crippled me and now threaten someone he cares about. He says nothing.
So I say nothing.
Through the rage-induced hazy tint of crimson, I spot the little plaster shrine to the Virgin Mary and the vase of roses.
Put the debt money into escrow, then send flowers…
And not just one dozen, but…
He’ll give them to the Virgin…
The traditions are so thick they stick to your ribs, but Mary passively holds out her hands.
Can you do something about…
Before my brain catches up, my body catches Santino in a split moment of inattention, and I wrest myself away, take the vase of roses, and throw them over the gate. The vase smashes on the sidewalk with apop. Water streaks the concrete like a drawing of a comet.
“Santi,” a man’s voice comes from the stoop in a whisper. It’s the daughter-seller.
“Go inside, Marco. You too, Angelo. I have this.”
Santino has nothing, because I rush past him and through the gate to step on the flowers, squashing the hard buds underfoot and scattering the petals. None should remain to prove Marco ever left them for the virgin.
“Violetta.” Santino’s voice is now firm and calm and deep. It ripples down my spine, settles into the rage in my belly, and I wake up from a dream.
We’re both on the street, white petals sprayed around like targeted snowfall.
“It’s okay,” he says softly, one hand out to me.
I don’t care if he’s angry. I don’t care if he threatens me or commands me to stop. I’m ready for that. I’m primed to fight him every step of the way. But there’s no way to combat this gentle, compassionate thing he’s doing. He’s pulling open the valve and deflating the very thing that’s keeping me upright.
And suddenly, I don’t have the strength to do it anymore. I throw myself against him and let his arms tighten around me. I won’t be stopped. I can’t be stopped. I must nullify this union and I must save my friend and cousin, and I must undo the traditions and I must, I must, I must…
“We can’t let this happen.” I choke on the words, unable to stop sobbing.
I collapse and Santino holds me up, trying to get me to walk. Slowly, I follow while he tells me it’s going to be all right, it’s going to be fine, and I don’t resist. I hear his words in their spirit. He’s not promising me anything past the next few minutes, which I’ll get through and live to fight another day.
Before I know it, I’m in the Mercedes I drove here in, except now I’m a passenger again.
Santino starts the car, pauses, and leans into me, but not for a kiss. To look out my window. I follow his gaze. A car is double-parked in front of the house. Damiano’s on the sidewalk, his arms out and his palms up, wider than the Virgin’s. He’s sayingwhat the fuck? Marco runs down the stoop to explain or apologize.
I need to see if this is just a messy sidewalk or an insult Damiano cannot forgive, but the car jerks under me, and we take off down the block.
* * *
Santino pulls upto the front door and puts the car into park.
“What did I do?” I ask numbly.
“Maybe nothing.” He shrugs, dismissing the seriousness of it all. “Maybe a war.”
