Page 60 of Mafia Queen
I have a near physical need to stab his face and—at the same time—I hate seeing him like this.
When did it all get so complicated?
“Fuck this.” I toss the awl on the counter and get ready to lie to give my wife what she’s always wanted so badly. Independence.
17
VIOLETTA
Remo rushes to me as I come down the stairs.
“Re Santino says to be on the east side of the house.”
“You run the same, you know,” I say.
“What’s that mean?”
“When you were stealing second, you had this way of running like you were skidding sideways. Lydia Lapore swooned for it.”
“Yeah?” He’s got a smile that takes up half his face.
I find myself wishing he wasn’t here. He should be in town, working at the sporting goods shop, flirting with all the girls my age. I hope he lives through this war and quits the life forever.
“Yeah.”
“Cool. I gotta go get the Mercedes ready.”
“Sciòthen.”
Remo runs off, and I find the east side of the house, which seems to be the more utilitarian. The sheer drop into scrub and trees is bordered by a log fence. The trash bins on the side of the house are a few steps away.
The direction of the wind has changed, and though the birds and bugs still sing, an eerie silence waits underneath it.
Santino strides across the grass like the master of the universe. His leather side holster is over his blue shirt, and another holster dangles from his fingers.
He takes the gun from the second holster and puts it in my hand. It’s not like his grandfather’s revolver. This one has a thicker shape, with a textured handle that’s grooved for a man’s fingers.
“What’s this for?”
“To protect yourself,” Santino says, letting his palm slide away. “We don’t have any statues to break.”
He’s talking about the statue of the Virgin I smashed so I could use a piece to commit murder.
“Broken statues work though.” I inspect the gun. Looks easy enough to operate. I wonder how hard you have to pull the trigger to make it shoot.
“Only when you’re in reach.” From the bin, he grabs a few Coke bottles by the neck and puts one at the top of the fence post. “No one should get that close again. Also.” He looks over his shoulder critically. “Keep your finger off the trigger unless you’re going to shoot, and when you shoot, you aim to kill every time. No less.”
For a moment, I wonder how many times he’s pulled the trigger and how his aim was. How many men died, and why?
He pushes me back a few steps, turns, then gets behind me. The bottle is so far away I can’t read the brand printed on them.
“You want me to hit that?” I ask.
“Yes. Hold your gun up with both hands.”
“That’s too far.” I raise the gun and close one eye. “Now what?”
“Line up the notches here and here…” He points them out on either side of the barrel, then the protrusion in the middle. “And the pin with the target.”
