Page 83 of Mafia Queen
24
VIOLETTA
My mother’s name.
It echoes as the gate creaks open.
It’s a pretty lemon sour on the tongue. Ice water hitting a sensitive tooth on a hot day. The itch of a healing wound. It’s unbearable, and I don’t know why.
Turning, I pace to the house and stop in the kitchen. I don’t know why I stop here because everyone’s going to follow. The men who are doing what I ask of them, and the two invaders at the gate. I should go upstairs to Santino’s office. Whatever is in that box should be opened in the place of power, where the tributes to the throne are made.
Celia rushes in. “They’re coming.”
“Make coffee.”
She grabs the pot and turns on the water.
They’re coming through the dining room. Box and cane. I should go up to Santino’s office now, but his throne is too big for me.
“In here,” I say.
The cane clicks on the marble floor five times before the visitors stand on the other side of the kitchen island.
“Bring a chair,” I say, eyes on the old man.
“No,” he says, inspecting me in the light for the first time. “I stand for Camilla’s daughter.”
The driver puts the box on the counter. His gloves are still on. They have a silvery shine in this light and an unexpected thickness. Utilitarian. Not fussy. The top of the box is a mosaic of tiny tiles arranged into a mermaid, framed with vines and seashells.
When I turn back to the consigliere,he’s still looking at me carefully.
“I know,” I say. “I look like my father.”
Hetsksthe same way Santino does when he wants to dismiss something.
“You are a Cavallo.” He regards me coldly, with an unveiled interest, which is enough to make me uncomfortable. But more than that, there’s something deeply unnerving about how he’s speaking to me.
“What do you want?” I ask. “We’re a little busy having a war here.”
Nazario laughs, but it sounds more like a series of heavy breaths accompanied by bouncing shoulders. “You are like your mother.”
Am I? In what way? My words? My voice? My carriage? There are moments when I feel as if I never knew her, and this is one of them.
“This a family reunion?” a man says from behind me.
It’s Dario. Fuck. Someone let him out—probably Carmine—and I can’t scream about it, or I’ll look like a loser to everyone lining the room.
“Don’t rush me, Mr. Lucari,” the old man says. “Half of New York wants you dead. The other half thinks you’re already in your grave. I can tell one where you are or prove the other right. That’s up to you.”
What would Santino do?
I have to admit I don’t know. But I know what I’d want him to do, and that’s good enough. Dario isn’t my favorite person in the world, but at this moment, he’s on my team, in my care, and I don’t like him being threatened.
“He’s with me,” I say.
“Is he?” Nazario asks.
What is it about the way he’s speaking to me that seems so disconcerting?
