Page 20 of Mafia Queen
“You’re safe,” he says softly. “I’m with you.”
He’s not lying. If anyone came for us here, they’d be seen and dealt with, and that’s exactly what brings the waxy smell of incense, the impact of the fist in my face, and the sight of blood on church marble into my mind all at the same time. When my thoughts are quiet and relaxed, I see Santino fall into the pool, over and over, overriding the fear of being forced into another marriage. It blocks out being hit by a man three times my size. The utter desolation of waking in that room knowing Santino was dead is what’s making me shake uncontrollably.
He’s got his elbows on the table, leaning close enough that I see every hair of his beard, the errant eyebrows, every fleck in eyes that can seem bottomless. I was so close to him twenty minutes ago, but I feel as if I’m seeing him for the first time. I can’t live like a newborn every day.
“Open your mouth.” He takes a spoonful with a meatball and vegetables.
Finally having a complete mouthful is a shock to my system, but chewing brings my appetite around. By the time I’ve swallowed, Santino has another ready for me. I take it and speak around my food.
“We just had a whole conversation, but inside? I still can’t process it. That you’re here.” I swallow, touching his resting hand.
He feeds me more without losing a drop.
“And all that other stuff that happened after you…died? That room. The shot they gave me. Gia being so dead inside.” I shudder then open for more soup. “The replay of our wedding, and going crazy—killing that kid—it all had this hopelessness.”
“Hush. Eat first.”
Once I obey the second command, I disregard the first. “There’s a part of me that’s convinced that if I stop touching you, you’ll turn into a ghost.”
“Tell that part my ghost is still attached to my body.” He uses both hands to hold the bowl and scrape up the last of the soup.
I resist the urge to touch him again. When I swallow, I close my eyes and try to feel his physical presence, but all my mind sees is emptiness, and all I sense is the sinking vacuum of death.
“It’s not listening.” I reach into the darkness. My hand lands on his arm. It’s real and physically present, yet I don’t believe it. I open my eyes. He’s here. Right here.
“Do you want more soup?”
I don’t want more soup.
Down to bone and blood, I want to know he’s alive. I want to be convinced, and there’s only one way to do it.
“I want to be normal again.” I push away the bowl. “I want you to take me. Like you do. Now. Hard.”
“You’re in no condition.” He sits back.
“I said now.”
“And I say when you’re well enough.”
He’s really going to refuse me—not because he doesn’t want to do it, but because he’s afraid he’ll hurt me or something.
He has to hurt me. That’s the point.
My right hand gets the message half a millisecond after my brain decides to send it, shooting forward and slapping him in the face as hard as I can.
I can’t tell if it hurts, or if he even has a reaction. He doesn’t budge. Maybe he looks a little curious, which isn’t what I’m after, so I swing harder, aiming for the same spot on his cheek. He grabs my wrist an inch from his face.
“What are you trying to do?” His grip is tight, but not hard enough.
“Make me believe you’re here.”
“I am here.”
“Prove it.” We’re locked in a gaze crackling with questions and demands. “I can’t live with this doubt. I won’t be able to sleep, or think, or trust my own eyes ever again. I need you to rip me apart. Pretend I was at that altar because I wanted to be.”
His grip tightens, and his eyes burn with new intensity. That’s it. I’ve found the big green button to push repeatedly.
“Stop it,” he growls. “This is a dangerous game.”
