Page 31 of Mafia Queen
“Yes.”
“It’s coming out?”
She nods, sniffing as if she’s going to cry. Selfishly, I hope she doesn’t, because I won’t know what to do with my anger.
“Is there something I can do?”
She shakes her head. “Just stay.”
I stay with her, making a mental list of who deserves to die for this. “I’m sorry, Violetta. I’m so sorry.”
“Not your fault.”
“I shouldn’t have made love to you. It was—”
Her laugh dissolves into more groans, more splashing. She bends so deep her forehead touches the top of my hand as it rests on her knee. Her shoulders shake.
She’s still laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
“You,” she says into her thighs. “You backwardpaisà. They don’t teach you anything.” She looks up. I can’t tell if the white part of her black eye is more bloodshot than yesterday. “It was the drugs they gave me. Or the stress. Or it just wasn’t a good egg. But it wasn’t your dick. That’s not how it works.”
I can’t pretend to know how any of it works. All I know about a woman’s body is where to put my dick, my fingers, and my mouth. I know I’m stupid enough about the rest to ask if I’m hurting her. I’ve never had to deal with pain I didn’t cause and couldn’t stop.
“I’m sorry anyway.Mi dispiace.”
Her face crunches, and she nods, bending again. “It just hurts.”
“Is there something I can get for you?” I squeeze her hands. It’s all I have. I’m out of my depth. “Anything? I’ll kill an animal for you to eat. I’ll bring a river if you’re thirsty. If you’re cold, I’ll set the world on fire to keep you warm.”
“You’re sweet.” She sobs into her knees, and I want to put the world into a shredder to make her stop.
“You want normal? I’ll give it to you. Barbecues and a house. Like they show on television. We’ll get in the car and drive anyplace you want. The ends of the earth. The middle of nowhere. The moon. California.”
“Calif—?” She cuts herself off, and I think it’s to cry until she lifts her head. “Don’t try to be funny.”
“I’m not trying to be funny. I don’t like winter.”
Her face twists like dough. “Ow. Sorry. Me neither.” She bends again, putting her lips on our clasped hands. “Ow.”
“Whatever you want,” I whisper, repeating the promise over and over, wishing for some way to fix this disaster.
“I want my mother,” she says into our hands. “And two Advil.”
She doesn’t let me get up for the pills for a few minutes.
As far as her mother goes, even the king can’t raise Camilla Cavallo from the dead. But I can bring her the comfort of women.
* * *
Celia broughtAdvil when I texted for it. She stood in the doorway, saw my wife on the toilet with blood everywhere, and knew what to do. She stripped the bed, brought us a stack of clean towels, and readied a hot water bottle.
Women must be taught these things while men are killing animals and moving rivers, and since Violetta isn’t hungry or thirsty, I’m useless once I carry her to a fresh bed.
“I’m fine,” she says. Her eyelids droop, then she cringes and groans again.
“Is the Advil not working?” I ask Celia, realizing my cook is not enough. She has a job. This is not going to work.
