Page 32 of Mafia Queen
“Go,” Violetta says. “Move a mountain or whatever. I’m fine.”
I let Celia hustle me out, but once I’m in the hallway, all of the threads of the coming war tighten around me into a trap. If I don’t do something for her, I’ll go crazy.
This insanity isn’t new. When Rosetta died, I couldn’t figure out why it happened or who to blame. Outside my territory, I couldn’t threaten my way to an answer. I couldn’t break the doctor or midwife without exposing myself and thus Violetta, who was a sitting duck on the other side. I didn’t know the right questions to ask, and I didn’t believe the answers anyway. Rosetta was a good girl. I didn’t want her, but she’d been given to me, and when it turned out I had another, more noble reason to marry her, I saw it as a gift. I would raise the ill-conceived child as my own and make the best from the worst.
Then she died. A hole opened in the earth, and I fell into the gaps in my knowledge. An ectopic pregnancy is still a baby… Or is it not? And does it matter? Was it preventable? On purpose? Who did it? I was a wild man, trying to close the gap with assumptions and old wives’ tales.
Here I am again. I recognize this helplessness. This ignorance.
Out the window, I see Secondo Vasto, but also the houses built into the mountain below, and I know what to do.
I hustle downstairs. This time, I will do something. I will not leave Violetta with no one to talk to.
* * *
Loretta doesn’t knowI’m coming. If she’s home, I’ll talk to her. If she’s not, I’ll wait. If Damiano’s there again, all the better. This will be over sooner than I thought.
“So,” Tavie says as he drives. “We getting her for leverage? ‘Cos of her and Damiano?”
“No.” I don’t explain further. My cousin doesn’t have to know my reasons even if he knows Loretta’s history. Dami would let her die to get ten centimeters closer to the crown.
The road down to her place can be as treacherous as the conversation I am forced to have with Tavie. He drives the Mercedes around the curves with confidence. If we all get past this, I decide this will be his job.
We’re halfway to Loretta’s when I have enough signal to call the Politos.
“Pronto?” Guglielmo answers the phone.
“It’s Santino,” I say. “I need Madeline to come to her niece. Have her pack a bag.”
He grunts, and there’s a muffle over the receiver. Words spoken in whispers. Then her Zia Madeline comes on the phone.
“Where is she?” Her voice is stiff. Something isn’t right, and I decide not to answer the question.
“Just be ready.”
“Is she up the mountain?”
“You’ll know when you know.”
“I can’t come, I’m sorry,” she says quickly and hangs up.
I’m left looking at my phone. Something is wrong.
“What happened?” Tavie asks.
“We’ll pick up another car and go there next,” I say more to myself than him, counting how many men I think I’ll need. “Someone’s there.”
“Gia?” he asks.
Maybe. Maybe not. But now I know I have to deal with the problem in front of me. Tavie.
When someone is sent into exile, I personally tell the family why. When men are killed, I tell the family how. I promise vengeance if it’s appropriate and let them know when it was delivered. I have to do this every time, in person, or the whole city would erupt into amateur killing hour. It’s a terrible thing, to tell young parents their son was murdered. It’s worse when they’re older. They think it’s time to rest and let their children move forward, then I come to let them know there will be no more forward motion. Everything they took for granted now stops.
Now I owe this boy the same respect.
“Your sister,” I say.
“If I knew where she was, I’d go to her and tell her she’s doing the wrong thing.”
