Page 30 of Mafia Queen
“Yes.”
“I have them to give. But not until my business with the Orolios is finished.”
“Ti ringrazio. How long do you think this business is going to take?” he asks.
“Depends. You pay for the men with a certain favor, and it could be done before a single leaf turns red.”
Dario puts his elbows on the desk, ready to hear my proposal. “I need to be in New York by the eleventh.”
“The sooner I find Damiano Orolio, the sooner you get the men you need and get home.”
He lifts his glass and I lift mine. We drink on it, and I tell him where to find Marco Polito, the closest thing to a father I ever had.
* * *
The sun is hiding justbehind the horizon when she groans in her sleep. Her brows knot and she curls into a tight fetal position.
“I’m here,” I whisper too low to wake her, but she groans again and curls into herself. I can’t see her like this, chasing demons in her mind when I’m right here to slaughter them for her. “It’s just a dream.”
I stroke her cheek. Her eyes open, then go wide. Wakefulness hasn’t chased away the bad dream.
“I’m here,” I repeat.
“No.”
“You were having a nightmare.”
“No,” she repeats, throwing the covers off her.
There’s blood everywhere.
Violetta turns on the light. The black shape under her becomes a violent red.
I’ve seen a lot of blood in my life—and I’ve seen more than this come from a person’s body. She must be shot or stabbed, but I haven’t slept. No one came in. And she’s not acting wounded. So this shape soaked into the sheets—I’m shocked by it, and I’m not sure I should be. Women bleed. But how much blood? And shouldn’t they stop when they’re pregnant?
“Is this—” I’m going to saynormal, but a bark of pain comes from my wife.
She buckles at the waist. She’s in pain and I have nothing, nothing to say or do about it.
“What?” Loretta once said I only knew a woman’s body to the length of my dick. I knew she was right and didn’t think there was anything I needed to do about it. Now I wish I’d learned something, anything that would help Violetta now. I’m afraid to touch her and afraid not to. I’m like a runner on the first day of work for a new boss. “What do I do?”
She takes one hand from her belly and points toward the bathroom. “Help me.”
Given sudden purpose, I leap off the bed and pick her up in my arms, rushing to the bathroom in seven steps. Once there, though, my purpose is gone. I don’t know what to do. Still in my arms, she reaches over my shoulder, turns on the light, and motions to put her feet on the floor. She looks down at herself. Her panties and the bottom of her T-shirt are soaked with red.
“Oh, God.” She’s distressed and overwhelmed, and all I’m doing is standing here like an idiot.
I get on my knees in front of her and put my hands on her hips. “We get these off, okay?”
She nods. I lower her blood-soaked underwear over thighs dripping with it. She steps out, flips up the toilet lid, and crouches on the seat, bent at the waist with her elbows on her knees.
“You don’t have to stay,” she says, eyes closed. The bruised one looks swollen all over again. She’s been through so much, and I can’t do anything.
“I want to.”
“It’s bad. It’s going to be bad. You can…” Her face crunches like dough being kneaded, and she lets out a longmmmnnnnthrough clenched teeth. Beneath her, water splashes on and on. I put my hand on her knee, and she grabs it, tightens, and her deep groans turn to a series of squeaks. She’s in pain, and I can’t kill someone or cut it out of her.
“This is the baby?”
