Page 81 of Mafia Queen
I run downstairs and out the back door, to the lawn where men run and shout, where the smell hits like a wall made of tar and asphalt and grit, following the flow of traffic to the gate.
A cry goes up from the station atop the guardhouse. I climb the ladder in the back of the structure, scrabbling to the top before anyone can tell me not to. Gennaro is up there already with a pair of binoculars.
The bridge is burning. The dots of flame peek out from the smoke then disappear.
We’re trapped.
All of us. Not just those of us on Torre Cavallo, but Secondo Vasto. My church, my school, the pork store, and the playground. They’ll starve us all until they have what they want.
I wish I had the crown. I’d shove it up Damiano Orolio’s ass.
But that’s not what Gennaro is looking at through his binoculars. I follow his sights to a car coming up the hill. It’s shiny, black, expensive. Not quite a limousine.
“What is that?”
Gennaro snaps around, not expecting me to be standing next to him. He hands me his binoculars without questioning why I’m here.
I put them to my eyes. The Lincoln Continental has its headlights blazing as if it’s on the way to a funeral. The windows are tinted so dark they’re opaque, and I wonder, and hope, and pray that Santino is in that car, coming up the mountain in victory.
Then anotherpopcomes from the bridge. An explosion. More fire.
“Violetta!” Carmine says from the ground. “Get down! You’re going to get killed!”
They won’t kill me. Not as long as they think I have the crown.
I take out the gun Santino gave me, holding it ready at my shoulder the way he taught me, and watch the black car make its way to us.
“We should get Dario,” Carmine says.
“Get Dario,” I reply, “and I’ll shoot you myself.”
He glances at the car, then back to me. The only reason he’s not running to free Dario from the basement is the possibility that Santino is in that car. If that’s the case, I’ll say “fuck the ladder” and float down to him like a leaf in the toxin-scented breeze—but it’s not. If my husband was coming toward me, I’d know it.
They’re all looking at me. I can read their minds. They’re wondering what this looks like if Santino’s in that car. What will it look like to have his wife so exposed? What are the consequences of not taking her down and putting her away like a china doll? What will the king do if his wife is touched? And what won’t he do if she’s hurt?
They’re asking the wrong questions. They need to ask themselves what I’ll do if they don’t get behind me.
“Vito, behind them.” I make a half-circle with my hand.
He returns a quick salute, gathering four men into the brush on either side of the road.
When the car crests the last rise, I point my gun at it. It’s a command. A call to action. I’m telling the men to take their eyes off the threat to themselves and direct their attention to the threat we all face.
There’s still an indent in the dirt where Armando fell off his moped. This is exactly where the car stops. It clicks into park. The engine shuts. Carmine’s men come from the brush and line up behind it.
Gennaro succumbs to his panic and yanks me back.
I elbow him off me and glare. “Do not.”
He holds his hands up in surrender, apologizing, but I have no time. No one does. Everyone holds their gun at the ready as the driver’s door opens. A blond man with thinning hair and a doughy build gets out with his hands up. He’s wearing bright white gloves in the August heat, but not a jacket to hide a holster.
“Occhio, che arriva il Blocco!” he shouts, announcing the arrival.
The Lock? What does that mean? Another dead man? Is it Santino this time? Or just another part of his body?
If it’s a single royal toenail, I’m killing the messenger and putting his head on a pole.
“Nazario Corragio,” Gennaro mutters with relief. “He’s one of us.”
