Page 74 of Mafia Queen
“You can’t do it yourself, and you know it.”
For a moment, I think he believes me. Either that I don’t have it, or that he can’t find the third party without my help.
“Nah, nah.” He stands. “You think I’m astunad.” He leans into my face. “I’m going to give Violetta one chance to give it up.”
“She doesn’t have it.”
“If we’re convincing enough, she’ll have it.”
What are they going to do to her? Everything Damiano promised on the phone, or—with me out of the way—will it be worse?
“You can’t make it appear from a wish.”
“Wish for what? A crown I know your wife has?” Damiano leans down to look me in the eye. “It should have been mine anyway. My father is the older brother.”
Cosimo is the older brother to whom? And why would that matter?
“Come?” I ask. My voice sounds like worn sandpaper.
“Half brother. But still.” My expression sends a smile spreading across Damiano’s face, and he chuckles. “You didn’t know? For fuck’s sake, Santi. Did you even know about him and…?” He makes a side-to-side motion with his hand, then—when it’s obvious I don’t know what he’s talking about—waves away the rest of the sentence. “Never mind. That nugget belongs to your little missus.”
He pats my chest before standing, then stops himself. He reaches into my breast pocket and takes out my cigarettes and bent lighter.
“This is what saved you,” he says, inspecting the lighter.
“God saved me.”
“Sure, Santi. God gives a shit.” He takes out a cigarette and puts it between my lips. The bent Zippo is too hard to open. He throws it on the cushions of the mustard couch and snaps his fingers at Carlo. “Give me yours.”
Carlo takes a tiny red Bic lighter and a pen from his pocket.
“Let me see that pen too,” Damiano says. Carlo hands them over, and his boss turns back to me. “I don’t want you to think I feel good about any of this.”
“I don’t care how you feel,” I say, cigarette bobbing as I talk. “But you’re going to be disappointed. Then you’re going to need me, and if she’s hurt…”
“Yeah, I know. You’re going to blah blah.”
He lights my cigarette, and I suck on the filter. I don’t want the kindness, but for the sake of a deal, I need to accept it.
“You still think I’ll come crawling back? Be like,” Damiano continues in a falsetto, “‘Oh, Santi, please help me find it!’ so you can tell me to fuck myself?”
“I will help you hunt down whoever has it.”
“You’ll never help me. Your face looks like you been bobbing for sausages in the Sunday gravy.”
“Part of the job.”
“Glad you understand,” he says, fanning the pen between two fingers. “Anyway. As a show of good faith, since we got a pen right here, you want to leave Violetta a message or something? Tell her to open the gate? It’s taking candy from a baby either way, but if she don’t fight, we’ll let her live.”
There’s no chance I’ll tell my wife to submit to this man, and there’s no world in which she wouldn’t fight.
I know what I’m going to write, but I don’t know where.
Damiano jerks his head to Carlo, who gets a pair of hedge clippers from the wall.
21
VIOLETTA
