Page 17 of Mafia Queen
“She must have been something else to need this kind of protection.”
“They say it was to protect her from his wife.” He shrugs. “But he died badly, and his mistress died old.”
Good for her, I guess.
“When we were kids, we told each other no one lived here,” I say, looking out the window. “Rosetta went to school, and the kids told her Altieri Cavallo haunted it to make sure his mistress never had another man. To punish him, when she died she wouldn’t let him follow her to the land of the dead, so he’s stuck here.”
“I haven’t seen him.”
“When I found out my mother’s maiden name, I asked Zia if this was her house, and she laughed. She said that was a different Cavallo family. She said I shouldn’t read anything into names, and I believed her. My father was a grocer. You know?” I look at him, and our eyes meet. “I always thought of you as more of a Cavallo than me.”
His arm tightens around my shoulders. “I’m as much of a Moretti as you, but not by blood.”
That sounds right. Emilio Moretti was more of a father to him than to me. I didn’t even know him.
We pull up, and Carmine gets out to open the gate and close it when Gennaro drives us through. Santino helps me out of the back. A handful of men rush out the front door, barking news in Italian. I learn their names from listening. Vito is the tall one. Florio with the brown suit. Remo, whose handsome face matches something already in my brain.
“Remo Priola?” I say, still rattled but trying to find an anchor in the chaos, and this guy is it. “From St. Anselm’s? Third base?”
“Hey.” He smiles. “When they said Violetta, I kinda figured it was you.” He glances at Santino and puts up his hands. “I played baseball.”
“You were good too.”
My husband nods at him, then brushes a lock of hair from my face. “You can walk? Or should I carry you?”
“I can walk.”
“Bene, allora.” He offers his arm.
Silently, the men part like a sea of reeds, making room for us to pass into the house—as much my property as it is Santino’s—arm in arm as if we’re king and queen returning home.
The entrance is gilded, carved, painted, and inlaid with intricacies of stone and wood. A naked woman holding a pitcher rises in the center of a waterless marble fountain set in front of the curved staircase.
“Wow,” I say dryly. “Altieri’s mistress and your grandfather went to the same interior design school.”
Santino scoffs. “It’s fine for business.”
He leads me upstairs, and as I peer into the rooms we pass, I notice there are no pictures on the walls or decorations anywhere, and the sharp-edged, clean-lined furniture is as much a mismatch here as the gaudy, overdone furniture in Santino’s glass-and-stucco house. There are double doors on each side of the hall. One set is open to reveal dark wood and warm light.
“That’s my office. Like at home.”
“You should keep the doors closed if it’s off-limits.”
“To you, it’s not.”
He takes me across the hall. There’s a narrow, twisting staircase in the center. Bright light filters on the steps from above.
“The cupola.” I stop to look.
“I don’t want you up there,” he says as he opens the double doors to the bedroom.
Before I can ask why, something inside me twists. I bend and cringe, but it passes as quickly as it came.
“Violetta?” He shuts the door. “Are you all right? I’ll call you a doctor.”
“No doctors.” I don’t mean to be this definitive, but I can’t bear the thought right now. “I think I’m hungry.”
“Celia’s making something for you.” He puts a hand over my jaw, brushing his thumb along my bottom lip.
