Page 98 of Mafia Queen
Is no one willing to stand up for this sad, weepy little bitch? I look at Santino.
“You’re a queen now,Forzetta,” he says. “You choose what to do with her.”
What does he mean? Is he seriously giving me authority in his kingdom?
No. He’s not. He confers nothing. This isn’t a gift. I already have the power. He’s just stating a fact.
“I’m sorry, Violetta,” Gia says, stressed and uneven, somewhere between screaming and insisting. “And I’m not sorry. I don’t know why. I think there’s something wrong with me and I can’t take it.”
“Wee wee wee, all the way home,” Damiano mocks, an asshole to the bitter end.
“I can’t live with it all. Tavie and Papà. It’s my fault. Do it. Please. No one will blame you.”
I don’t care if anyone blames me. Santino’s right. I’m the queen, and her life is my choice.
When I kill Gia, I won’t be sorry either. But I’m not afraid of my brokenness the way she’s afraid of hers. How different are we? Both of us fought to be free, and we are. The only difference is she lost everything in the process—her family and her lover—while I gained everything.
I squeeze the trigger. A bouquet of broken asphalt spurts right in front of her.
“You are not cut out for this life,” I say, then watch her flinch as I shoot the space in front of her again.
“And you are.” She points at the hole in the ground as proof. “Just do it.”
“I am, and I’ll do it when I feel like it.”
I pop another bullet around her—and another, and another—intentionally missing her over and over until there’s a firework finale of rock exploding so close, she has to cover her eyes.
“Run, Gia,” I say, eleven bullets later. “Don’t stop. Just the clothes on your back. Run as far as you can. When you find what you think is normal—a life you’re cut out for—live it, and never come back here again.”
She takes her hands away and looks around as if the world is new. At me, then Santino, then Damiano, who is sitting cross-legged on the wet road.
“Go!” I shout.
Gia snaps out of it and scurries downhill. She gets smaller and her footsteps get quieter. Damiano fills the void she leaves with a sound that could be laughing or crying.
“Did I do that right?” I say, turning to my husband.
“There are no rules.”
Of course not. That is plain now. He and I are the rules, and his best friend is waiting to hear our verdict.
“You should be the one.” I point at Damiano, who’s trying to back away on his knees.
I can list every wrong that justifies me pulling the trigger. The full force of Damiano’s fist in my face. The forced marriage. The death of our baby. And even that doesn’t come close to what he did to me when he hurt Santino.
“We will do it.” Santino waves me closer, puts the gun in my hand, and positions himself behind me, arm to arm, hand to hand, his mutilated left fingers breaking my heart just enough to make me more angry.
Damiano’s almost to his feet, but he’s wobbly without his arms to leverage, and his shoes slip in the rain.
“I’m your brother,” he says to us.
“No,” Santino says into my ear, his body arched against mine. His cock is erect against the curve of my ass. I’m wet for it. For him. For the freedom of bloodshed.
“Not yours,” Damiano shouts, slipping again.
Before Damiano can utter another word, Santino’s hands squeeze around mine, and his arms absorb the recoil. Damiano falls back onto the street with a hole in his forehead.
I hold my breath.
