Page 51 of Mafia Queen
It’s Santino’s Uncle Marco. Paola’s husband. Gia’s father. The man who reluctantly raised his nephew. The man who said he was driving me to the airport to meet Gia, then made up a story about the brooch so he could deliver me to Damiano and put Santino in the way of a bullet.
I can’t really see his face, but he doesn’t look like he deserves whatever’s happening to him. He looks like a sad old Italian guy alone in a room.
Except he’s not alone.
From a dark corner, a man appears. He seems to be made of shadows. The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled past his roped, tattooed forearms. Standing over Marco, he reaches up and stops the lamp from swinging. The light reveals brown hair with a lock over his forehead, arched eyebrows, and a profile cut into marble.
When the man made of shadows speaks, his tone is gentle, even if his words are not. “I don’t want to ruin another shirt, sir.”
“I told you.” Marco’s voice has no strength. “I haven’t spoken to her.”
The man crouches in front of the chair, hands dangling between his knees. One holds a phone.
“But you did.” He raises the screen to Marco’s face. “We’re going to find her. You know that. How should we treat her? Like a woman or a whore?”
The answer is sobs.
“You only get to die once,” the man says. “Why do it in pain? Knowing you made it worse for your daughter.”
Marco shakes his head in denial.
With a resigned sigh, the shadowy man stands over a five-gallon bucket of tools in the corner, considers, then picks hedge clippers from it as if he’s plucking daisies. He looks in my direction, and I freeze in terror, because his blue eyes are coldly brutal and his mouth is full and savage, but he’s not directing his attention at me. He doesn’t even see me as he spins the clippers in a deft tic. He’s looking at the wall beneath the window.
Darkness flashes across the glass and there’s a bang to my right. I leap back with a gasp, discovering there’s a door there only as it slams open and Santino bursts out.
He’s stock still in the morning darkness, staring at me. Behind him, the door closes automatically with a soft hiss and click.
“What are you doing here?” he asks. His black T-shirt is stretched at the neck, and there are two scratch lines on his collarbone. His body is real and vulnerable. I want to heal it.
“I went to bed early, so I woke up early.”
Stepping toward me, he enters the light from the frosted window. He is conflicted. Pained. Fighting things he cannot control. He is complex and beautiful.
“Go back inside.”
“When you’re done with him,” I say, ignoring his order. “Who’s next? Gia? You think you’re going to kill her? You won’t.”
He takes out a pack of cigarettes. The backs of his hands are dirty.
“You think I’m soft.”
“I know you’re human, and she’s your sister.”
“This isn’t a television show.” He chooses a smoke and flicks open his bullet-bent lighter. “This is real. It’s too real for you.”
He brings the flame to his face, illuminating the pink of his lips and the color in his skin. I was wrong about the backs of his hands. They aren’t dirty. They’re covered in blood.
The man tied to that chair sold Santino into death and put me on an altar to another man.
“It’s not real enough. Why is he even alive?” I ask.
“Go inside,Forzetta.”
“Is it because he raised you?” The words are spit through my teeth. “You got sentimental and you forgot? I can remind you right the fuck now, he killed you and the baby inside me.”
“You think I don’t know?” He comes at me so fast I end up with my back to the wall. He’s pointing at me with the two fingers that clip the lit cigarette. “I can see your fucking face right in front of me.” He jams the cigarette in his lips and clamps my jaw, turning my head so my left eye faces him. “You want to know what it looks like? Eh?”
“I have a mirror, asshole.”
