Page 70 of Mafia Queen
“Disinfect, Loretta,” I continue to anyone who’ll listen. “Where’s the gauze?”
Remo has ripped open a blue paper envelope, and he’s ready to dump the gauze inside into a dish, but he’s stuck in place. I follow his gaze to Dario, who’s holding a ziplock bag. The plastic is cloudy with condensation, as if something warm and wet was put inside before it was sent into the cold night.
No.
They didn’t. Not for a dumb crown.
“I don’t have it!” I yell. “They have it!”
“I’m sorry, Vuh-vuh…” Armando trails off as if he has no energy to continue.
“Don’t you dare make those your last words,” I bark.
Dario is opening the bag. Nothing I say will make him stop.
I grab a handful of gauze and staunch the bleeding. “Loretta. Hold this here. Someone disinfect Celia. The women are going to hold this man together, am I right, ladies?”
“You need to look at this,” Dario says, looking into the open baggie.
“No, I don’t. You.” I jerk my chin at one of the guys. I’m face-blind with panic. He could be the pope for all I know. “Wash your hands and rip some sheets.”
“You have to confirm this is his or not,” Dario says.
Or not.
Whatever is in the bag could be a mistake or a trick, and if it is, I’ll be able to tell.
Putting pressure on the bleeding, I lean forward. Dario tips the opening toward me. My eyes close because they have a mind of their own…but my curiosity is stronger. I look inside.
It’s a finger.
It has a gold ring on the bottom.
“He’s not breathing!” someone shouts.
I tear my gaze away and put my ear on Armando’s chest. No heartbeat. “Does anyone besides me know CPR?” Celia steps forward. I drop the bag and get on a chair to start chest compressions. “Rescue breathing, okay?”
Celia tilts his head back, and we begin.
“Is it his or not?” Dario demands.
“How the fuck should I know?” I say between counts, then breathe into Armando’s mouth.
“Come on, Mando,” Celia says, her hands on his face. I never realized how big they are. “We ran out of the cherry biscotti. Please. You have to get more.”
Dario holds the bag out to me while I’m trying to save a guy’s fucking life.
“These fucking assholes want a crown they stole.” I deny everything in the rhythm of the compressions. “They should check the goddamn cupboards instead of asking me, and you tell me if it’s his finger and where the crown is because Idon’t fucking know.”
I know. I’ve had that finger inside me. I’ve sucked on it. I’ve watched how it moved with its brothers and sisters. How it made a fist. How it looked tucked in the web between my fingers.
But I don’t really know, do I? This could all be a bluff.
“Come on, Mando.” Celia’s voice is getting hopeless. We’re going to lose him.
“What’s engraved inside the ring?” I ask.
If it’s a bunch of numbers, it’s Santino’s. But there won’t be. It’ll be a date with words of tender eternal love. The finger belongs to one of the other guys, and that will be terrible.
