Page 40 of Mafia Queen
“Santino.” I remember the voice from the era of my first hundred cigarettes, but not the commanding tone it comes with.
“Damiano,” I answer, ducking down the hallway and continuing in Italian so I’m not understood. “Where are you?”
“So unfriendly. Nobuon giorno?”
“When you’re dead, I’ll call it a good day.” I back into a less-trafficked stairwell.
“You’re killing me now with this drama.”
Two women in white lab coats come down the stairs, chatting amiably. I nod to them and face the fire extinguisher as if that will shut out the world.
“It’s not like you, Santi.”
I have no time for this bullshit. Violetta will be out soon, and I need to be there for her.
“You tried to have me killed so you could take my wife. Is this phone call an apology for that? Because I’m busy.”
He laughs too humorlessly and for too long. He’s enjoying this. He thinks he’s winning, and I’m still trying to figure out the game.
“Come on, man. It’s a courtesy call. Old style. Like my father and his father used to do.”
I make eye contact with three people in scrubs. One smiles. This stairwell is too crowded already.
“I got guys everywhere. You know that. You saw it last night. So this is where I give you a last chance to surrender it all to me.”
I should laugh, but a call like this requires a serious response. The stairwell door opens, and yet another witness comes through. I can see the obstetrics waiting room just down the hall. Is Violetta out yet? I have to see her.
Catching the door before it closes, I look for privacy in a public space, hissing into the phone, “If you think you can win a war with me, you’re mistaken.”
“Look, my old friend, here’s the thing. We got the Tabonas.”
“What I left of them won’t follow you.”
“Wrong. I’m the one in the golden seat. I’m the one with the power. I’m the one with the future this time. Okay? I have friends. You have none. You’re running a town full of people who don’t follow you out of love, or fear, or nothing. They follow out of habit, and if you don’t have the crown, I can pluck them off.”
“You don’t have it either.”
“You sure, bro? You really so sure? Hey, Gia!” he calls out, away from the phone. “You got that ring with the number in it?”
“Right here, baby.” Gia’s cheerful little voice comes from the background.
“So like I told you,” he says. “This is a courtesy call.”
“You come for my wife again, and you will die. I will rip you from this earth.”
“Better keep your eyes peeled then because we’re coming.”
My blood flows faster, hotter, pushing against my veins so something, anything inside me is taking action while the outside stays calm for Violetta’s benefit. Standing in the corner of the obstetrics waiting room, facing a plant that could be real or plastic, brow knotted, I put every ounce of energy into staying calm.
“Mr. DiLustro?”
At my name, I turn to find Violetta standing next to a woman in her thirties with a ponytail and a tag that says “Dr. Sanchez.” I nod and—with a gesture—ask her to wait before I give Damiano my final answer.
“I’ll be ready.”
I hang up and go to my wife without fear that I will be falsely accused of violence. The true violence is invisible, silent, painless, and it has already started.
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