Page 79 of Mafia Queen
“It’s like he doesn’t need you anymore.”
I reach for the water and pill bottle. I put the label in front of the basement light to read. Advil. Medicine for women’s problems. Fine. Beggars can’t be choosers. If it’s good enough for Violetta, it’s probably too good for me.
After popping the cap, I shake some into my hand. One falls in the new space between my pinkie and middle finger. Three are left. I swallow them.
“If I ask you a hard question, can you answer honestly? Even if you think you’ll hurt my feelings?”
“I will not protect your feelings, Gia.”
The other bottle is white plastic with a pump top. The name of what’s inside has worn off. When I spray into the air, I smell the bite of hydrogen peroxide. Disinfecting the wound is pointless. I’ll be dead before infection has a chance to set in, but I hold the sprayer over the space where my finger was and douse it.
“Was I a good waitress?” she asks.
“Cosa?” The sting hits my open wound and burrows up my nose, clearing my sinuses. I drop the bottle.
“It’s that…when I was little, you said you’d always protect me. And you did. You always took care of me… Ciro Sirigu. Remember?”
Of course I do. Gia and Ciro were in school together. They both got a math problem wrong in the exact same way. The teacher—a middle-aged woman who needed her pussy licked more than any woman I’ve ever met—called them in. Gia denied cheating. Ciro fluctuated between blame and paranoia. The teacher blamed Gia for copying Ciro, and—at the same time—giving him the incorrect answer.
Marco had dragged Gia out by the hair. I asked Emilio to step in before Gia went bald. Like a king, he strode into the school and demanded they both retake the test. My adopted sister got the same problem type wrong again, proving she was lousy at math, and Ciro got it right, proving he was a cheater.
“The customers liked you,” I say before draining the last of the water.
“I always wondered if you regretted letting me work at Mille Luce.”
“No.” The hissing of the pipes above stops, so my denial sounds like a shout.
“Because I liked it. I really did. And I was extra careful with adding up the checks. I thought this morning, ‘I’m late for work,’ but then I realized…”
“You may not have your job back.”
“I figured. Dami’s been talking about burning it down, but I don’t know if he got to it yet.”
I should be sad or something, but I don’t care about the café. I don’t care about my house—he can put burning that down on his to-do list. I don’t even care about having my finger cut off.
A part of my body was used to hurt Violetta. That’s what I care about.
“You missed these,” she says.
From the brick-sized hole at the top of the wall, a pack of Marlboros and a small, red Bic lighter drop to the floor.
Smoking will make the headache worse, but I light one anyway. The nicotine clears my head despite the way the smoke puts a knife in my skull.
“Where is she?” I ask. “My wife. What’s happening with her?”
“She’s up at Torre Cavallo, I guess? I overheard Dami saying he’s waiting for all the guys to come down to find you, or he’ll go up.”
That won’t go well. Altieri Cavallo put his mistress there for a reason.
The ceiling rattles rhythmically. The smell of dry, hot air fights the cigarette smoke.
“Santi?” Gia says. “Can you tell her to come down with it? The crown? You could write a note or something. She’d listen to you.”
There’s no use saying we don’t have the crown. None of them believe it.
“I’m not in charge anymore.” I flick the lighter, watching it spark. The flame doesn’t add much light.
“What if I talked to Damiano? Maybe I could convince him to free you? Take this wall down so you can reason with her and all this could be over?”
