Page 84 of Mafia Queen
“He is.” I cross my arms.
“As am I,” Nazario says. “Before you laid a foot in America, I was with you.”
When he smiles, his teeth are a wall of white caps sitting too far in front of his shrinking jaw. Under bushy eyebrows, his glassed-over eyes may be green or brown. He is capable of lies, but right now, he’s sincere. He sees himself as an ally. Whether or not he actually is remains to be seen.
“You believe him,” Dario says from behind.
I turn to face him. “Do you?”
“I don’t believe anyone. Least of all the consigliere of a dead man.”
The lawyer leans on his cane at his center with both hands, a smile playing on his spotted lips. “When the box is opened,” he says to me, “step away from this man. Respectfully.” He nods slightly. “In case he’s struck down where he stands.”
This old Italian person is speaking directly to me, as if I’m the authority here, not the nearest man. That’s what’s so disconcerting. His respectfully paternal, yet playful manner is straight out of the old country. But I’ve never seen a guy from the other side direct deference to a woman under the age of eighty.
“Let’s open it and see,” I say.
“Bene.” He nods to the driver, who reaches for the box’s metal latch.
“Let me just warn you,” I say, putting my hand on the driver’s to still it. “If this box has a hair of my husband’s head in it, I’m going to rip both your hearts out, put them in here while they’re still beating, and send it back where it came from.”
“Americans.”Il Bloccoscoffs, then stands up straighter, his chin high. “Violetta Cavallo, I have brought you your inheritance.”
Without saying the words to myself, I knew that had to be what is in the box, and yet—when he says it—I’m still surprised.
The driver reaches to the front of the box and opens it.
I expect a few pieces of a broken crown. But it’s not that at all.
“What is this?” I whisper.
This thing… It’s not a few sections of holy junk. It’s not even broken.
And it’s not quite a crown either.
“Yours,” the consigliere says. “It’s yours. Take it.”
I don’t know if I can trust him. The hammered silver circle on the threadbare red velvet bed could be a trap. A bomb with points at the front and a thin band around the back. A trick to get me to claim what belongs to someone else. It could be a decoy sent to distract us from the pillar of smoke coming from the bridge.
Santino already told me what to do.
NO RULES
Love rules without rules. But maybe Santino meant to tell me that the lines drawn around my actions and experience really aren’t there. I can step over them and take what’s mine. Or that could be what I want it all to mean.
I wish he was here with me. He should be…after everything we’ve been through over this box.
What would Santino want me to do?
L’amore governasenza regole.
He’d say there’s no worn path here. This hasn’t been done before.
He’d say that the only rule is our love. We write the rest of history.
I touch the metal. It’s warm, but it’s also August. Everything’s hot.
I lift it out. It’s heavy, but it’s also iron. Iron’s a heavy thing.
