Page 73 of Mafia King
Santino’s leaningon the car, talking on the phone when we’re done with the house. He hangs up when he sees us. I should tell him to take me to the drugstore, but as we drive away from Bosco, who’s waving from the front porch, and out the front gate, there’s no choice to make. Santino’s tight as a drum. I’m not telling him shit right now. I don’t think he can handle it.
I put my hand on his, and he strokes my pinkie but doesn’t loosen up. His tension radiates outward, filling every inch of the car.
“Are you all right?” I ask, assuming he’ll say he’s fine, and even if something is wrong, it’s not my business.
He defies my expectations and hands me his phone. There’s a text from Gia.
—Dear Santino. I won’t be at work today. I’m sorry. Thank you for giving me the job. It meant a lot to me. I’m going back with Mamma today—
There’s no more.
“What does she mean by ‘going back’?”
“I can take you home,” he says at the light before the bridge. “But it’s in the opposite direction, and you won’t have a chance to say good-bye.”
I’m going back with Mamma today.
“Gia’s going back to the other side?”
The light turns green.
“Decide.”
“Decide what?” I ask.
“Airport or home.”
There is no decision.
“Airport.”
Santino swoops into a U-turn at the intersection, causing a symphony of horns, shouts, and screeching tires, gunning it to make the next light. I grip the dashboard and his hand to try to keep steady.
“Is that what you were on the phone about? She’s getting sent home?”
“They’re notsendingher home,” he says, slapping the shifter into a different gear. “They’rebringingher home for two weeks. To get the right things…” He stops as if he doesn’t want to say it.
But Rosetta went to Italy for the right things too.
“For the wedding?” The engine’s roaring so loud I have to shout, but I would have raised my voice anyway. “You said you took care of it!”
“Did I?”
Did he? Or is that what I assumed he meant?
“You said he had nothing to gain.”
He takes a turn at a yellow light, and with a gear change and a lurch, we’re speeding down the highway. His full lips are thinned by the tight clench of his mouth.
“That’s what this house is about,” I say, then continue when I get no response from him. “You’re trying to placate me. You think if you buy me, I’ll let her—or anyone—get sold into marriage. All I cost is a house.”
“No,” is all he can get out.
“Say you’re not a liar.”
“I did not lie.” His finger juts at me, but with his eyes on the road, the pointing loses its power. “I thought I had more time.”
“Is that why you’re driving to the airport at ninety miles an hour?”
