Page 96 of Mafia King
“Gia’s marriage is all the above.”
“Yes. And she’ll be married before I have the crown.”
“No, she won’t be.” Her gaze is far-fixed, searching for a way to undo what’s been done. “What if you have to stop it? Like someone forced your hand or something?”
“Someone like my wife?”
“Maybe.” Her eyes are everywhere, taking in the layout of the room and the things in it. “I never asked you about your grandfather’s furniture.” She rubs her thumb along the ornate curve of the chair’s edge.
“What about it?”
“Why won’t you get rid of it?”
“I love it.”
“You know it doesn’t go with the house, right?”
“I know. But when my mother was raped and the man didn’t offer to make an honest woman out of her, my grandfather rejected her. Threw her out.”
“Wow. Asshole. What about your grandmother?”
“Dead. My aunt Paola found her sister in an asylum in Aversa, then found me with the Sisters of the Assumption. I was born in the Montesanto Metro station. And still, my grandfather wanted nothing to do with her or with me.”
“But Paola took care of you.”
“Only when she got married to Marco, who I will always be this grateful to.” I hold up a finger and thumb an inch apart. “But no more than this much. Paola took a job and moved my mother to Trieste, then took me in. My grandfather still wouldn’t meet me. He let his daughters live in shit instead. So.” I lean back and spread my arms, indicating the entire house and everything in it. “When he died, I took his things and put them in my house so every day, I sit in his chairs and eat off his tables. I won. I beat him. I own his life now.”
She nods, looking around the room with fresh eyes. “You really know how to hang on to a grudge.”
“It’s in the blood.”
“Yeah. Speaking of blood…” She stands. “Mine’s low on sugar, and I can’t think. Can we finish this in the kitchen?”
She’s not asking for permission, and I have the choice to follow her or get left behind.
25
VIOLETTA
His voice rattles the windows of my dream, which has no story or point. No lesson. It’s just pink lines crisscrossing my vision. Two. Four. Ten. Bifurcated. Crisscrossing. Never curved. Always in parallel pairs like elongated equal signs. A web across my vision in every direction. I’m not panicked. I’m not trapped inside them, trying to escape. We’re just in the same noplace, the pink lines and I, coexisting.
I went to bed alone, but the lines vibrate when he speaks, and somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, I know he’s beside me.
“Take it,” he mutters.
I think this is a warning that he’s going to penetrate me. My body heeds the words and rushes liquid between my legs.
“Prendilo e basta,” he says the same thing in Italian.
Mostly awake now, I can tell his flat affect means he’s sleeping, not getting ready to fuck me. With a deep breath, I’m aware enough to see the blur of him lying on his back next to me. I put my hand on his arm.
“Santi,” I say gruffly. I half hope he’s dreaming about sex. I wouldn’t mind a little right now.
“Prendilo e basta.”
Just take itis not the same astake it. I’m not rousing a horny man, which becomes even more clear when I move my hand to his chest and I can feel his heart pounding. His arm twitches.
“Hey.” I get an elbow under me. “You’re having a dream.”
