Page 3 of Mafia Queen
“He’s not even twenty, and you act like he’s the only man you have.”
“DiLustro fights like a dog. That’s why I chose him for the‘mbasciata. Dinner can wait.”
“You chose him to protect power.” She points at him. “And you didn’t consult me.”
“This argument again? Over a dinner out? Come on.”
“If you find yourself dead, I’m in charge and that deal is off.”
Papà’s voice gets smoother and softer. “I will take you to an anniversary dinner for the ages…tomorrow night.” Tenderly, my father brushes my mother’s hair off her face. “I swear on the crown.”
Mamma scoffs, and a smile teases the corners of her mouth. Her anger seems thinner. “You can only swear on what’s yours.”
“I swear on you then.” He brushes his lips on her cheek. “I swear on our children.”
“You can swear on all the inventory I have to do today. That’s yours. Then you can swear on dinner atLa Lavagna. Tonight. Or you’re going to have to find love with your right hand for a long time.”
I don’t know what that means, but it seems to break his resistance.
“Fine. Tonight. Happy anniversary, my love.” He gets close again. I love when they’re like this. I don’t understand what they’re saying half the time, but it doesn’t matter. Their body language tells a story of love. “Sal can take the girls. Let’s you and I spend the hour alone before…”
I don’t hear the rest, because Rosetta’s feetclop-clopdown the stairs in suede platforms. Mamma turns and sees me standing there, then my sister approaching from behind me.
“Girls,” Mamma says, shifting away from our father. She stands in front of the hall mirror and pins on a purple hat with a black ribbon. “Your father and I are going out tonight. Grab what you need to spend the night at Nonna’s.”
Rosetta stomps upstairs, personally offended at being pawned off. That’s dumb. Spending the night with Nonna means hot chocolate and all the biscotti I can eat, even if it ruins dinner.
As I’m turning to follow Rosetta, I catch sight of my mother looking at herself in the mirror, and I have to stop, because she doesn’t look like herself. She’s different. Everything about her. I don’t recognize her stone-faced expression, the matte sheen of her white skin, the chiseled nose. She’s not a dead version of herself—she is a version that was never alive.
Her eyes shoot to me, and she’s back to her flush, living self.
“Sciò!” She shoos me away, and I run.
By the time I get to the top of the stairs, I’m mentally deciding which pajamas to bring, and the strange mother looking in the mirror isn’t even a memory.
2
VIOLETTA
NOW
“Is your husband dead?”
My mind is cluttered with the dead, but I’m an American woman, and in my culture, we learn about life and death from movies. There, the dead come back to the living and offer advice, comfort, or permission to seek vengeance. Sometimes you can see through them, and maybe they glow a little or their color is washed out. Sometimes they’re just the actor in an unusual place, and their loved one wakes up inspired to do a new thing.
My education in the habits and power of the dead is a lie.
The Santino in my mind is just a product of my effort. It’s not him, or his soul, or his will. The spell I cast is no more powerful than the imaginings of a desperate woman.
In my half-consciousness, I try to conjure my king with a prayer to the only god whose presence I feel.
Hail Pain
Holy Agony
Smile upon my sacrifice
And fire, fire, fire
