Page 71 of Mafia Queen
“Nothing’s happening,” Celia says, looking into Armando’s glazed eyes.
Dario isn’t squeamish about taking the ring off a dead body part.
“Something has to be happening,” I say without evidence. “Give it a chance.”
Dario is looking inside the ring. I don’t want to know. I don’t.
“It says…”
“I’m counting!” I shout because I don’t want him to finish.
“The bleeding stopped,” Loretta says. “That’s good.”
“No. That’s bad,” I say.
I keep trying. I’m exhausted. My arms ache. I’m sweating myself into a raisin. But I can’t stop. If Armando’s dead, and that ring… I don’t know if I’ll survive if it comes all at once.
“Violetta,” Vito says, putting his hand on my shoulder.
“Shush!”
“I think—”
“Did I ask you what you think?” I turn to Dario. “We have to get him to the hospital. St. Anne’s isn’t too far.”
Everyone in the room seems to know it’s too far over the bridge, even if I won’t admit it. It’s too far a distance, and too long ago. He should have been taken there when the moped was at the bottom of the mountain, but he bled and bled to get up it, and now he’s gone.
Celia lets her hands slide off Armando’s face and puts her forehead to his chin. She weeps. I get off the dining room chair and stand on weak knees.
Dario holds out his hand. The bloody gold ring is in the center. “Do you recognize this? Is it his?”
This cannot be avoided any longer. Closing my fist around the ring, I drop into the chair, close my eyes, and take a breath. I know what I’m going to see.
Goddamn, Armando. You were a good guy. I’m sorry.
“Santino is not your king,” I say, eyes still as closed as the fist holding the ring. “He is mine. He is my country. He’s my kingdom. He’s the earth and the sun to me, and if they have him… If they’re using my entire world as leverage to demand something I don’t have, I consider it a personal insult.” I open my eyes and look at each man individually. “If they have him, I am going to get him. You won’t stop me.” I linger on Dario’s gaze. “I don’t need a crown to kill you for trying. I hope you understand that.”
“Please,” Dario says, unimpressed with my threats. “Read the inside.”
I open my hand. Blood streaks the shiny gold surface. Inside, where a loving couple would share a few words about eternity, the blood has flowed into the engraving and dried into the cut shape of a series of numbers.
I close my fist around it.
20
SANTINO
They cut the tape as a futile act of kindness, but I’m still stuck in a basement with no windows. It smells of mildew and old wine. They bricked in the last wall, leaving one space at the top to let in air—just in case they need me. I’ll die of dehydration before suffocation.
On my back, looking at the crossbeams for the floor above, I watch the boards creak under the weight of Damiano’s soldiers. If this room has a weak point, it’s that old wood and the nails holding down the planks. I can pull apart the electrical conduit. Find something rigid and sharp, then break out of the ceiling into a room of guys who will hear the racket and shoot me before I move a single board.
And that’s even if I can do it all with one working hand.
It hurt when they did it. It still hurts. The pain goes from my hand to my shoulder, then to my heart, where Violetta lives. My hand hurts because they took away part of it. My chest hurts because they sent it to her, so she’d worry enough to give them what she doesn’t have.
If she’s smart, she’ll fashion a crown out of tinfoil and wrap it around a bomb.
If she’s wise, she’ll hole herself up and let Dario handle it.
