Page 67 of Mafia Queen
She’s done nothing wrong, but I can’t stand the presence of her hopes. They’re not real. I need facts, and it’s taking all the energy I have not to jump out of my fucking skin.
An engine rumbles. It’s not a hum but a high-pitchedreerinterrupted byput-puts. Not a truck or train. I can’t see where it’s coming from, so I go into the hall and climb the stairs to the cupola. The sky is orange on the west side and navy blue to the east.
I know why Santino didn’t want me up here. I can see everything in all directions, but I can be seen the same way. With the right gun, I’m a target, and I don’t care. I want to find the source of the noise.
“Mrs. DiLustro,” Dario calls from the bottom of the cupola stairs.
Sure, I feel protected from outsiders, but not from him, even with the gun pressing against my armpit.
He appears from the stairway. I back up. Just then, in the corner of my eye, I see a single line of light coming up the twisting road, and the sight of it becomes one with the sound.
“It’s a motorcycle,” I say.
The road leads to one place. Here. Whoever’s driving that bike, they’re on their way to us. Nothing about the way it’s moving is a sign that it is—or isn’t—Santino.
“It’s a moped,” Dario corrects.
“Don’t try to get me to go downstairs,” I say, distracted by the light coming up the hill. I’m not afraid, and yet… I have a feeling so strong it’s as good as fact.
“Good. You finally understand where you belong.”
He disappears down the stairs.
“And don’t tell me to stay either.”
He probably didn’t hear that last sentence, but it doesn’t matter. I was reminding myself that I can do what I want, for any reason I want.
Santino tried to lock me away so many times and failed. He knows it’s not possible or desirable. That isn’t his order. My husband knows I can’t stand to be sidelined, and at this point, I’m so strung out on constant panic that sitting in the cupola another five minutes would be like a life sentence.
I run downstairs and onto the lawn. Remo runs across the lawn with three other guys, all armed with rifles. I follow them to the gate where Dario waits. Bright security lights illuminate the area outside the gate, leaving those of us on the inside in darkness.
“No!” Dario shouts at me. When I pass him, he grabs my arm. His eyes blaze, lighting up the darkening night. “Inside.”
“He’ll kill you for touching me. And I’ll let him.”
“If you get hurt,” he says over his shoulder, “he’ll try to kill me anyway.”
“I won’t let him.”
He scoffs as if he’s met my husband. Which he has. But he hasn’t met the Santino I know.
The dim beam of light points upward, cresting the last ridge, and comes straight for us. The man driving it is no more than a silhouette, but he’s too big to be Santino. There doesn’t seem to be anyone behind him. How much of a threat could he be?
He keens to the left. Rights himself before falling. Comes straight for a bit before swaying left again. This was the struggle to stay in a line on the way up.
Just before the moped enters the circle of light, Dario makes a sound with his tongue and throat. The men raise their rifles. I hold my breath.
The moped comes into the light and falls sideways, spilling the bloody driver onto the dirt.
It’s Armando.
19
VIOLETTA
Dario holds me back. I twist against his grip. I punch him. I make threats I intend to keep. But he won’t let me near Armando.
“Let me go!”
