Page 85 of Mafia Queen
The crown doesn’t shine or glitter. It’s a dull gray with an uneven texture, as if ripped from the earth by ancient gods and twisted into shape by hand. Three points spread across the front, with the center one being tallest. The circle completes around the back, where it’s held together with a long, sideways T that’s covered in rust.
The nail from the One True Cross.
It’s real.
It’s really real.
I decide right there that I will never touch that part of the crown. I am too mortal. Too fucked up. Too broken to come into contact with that kind of power. So when I put my thumbs on the front to lift it, my fingertips don’t go all the way around the back, which is when the size of it becomes clear.
Though the metal is rough hewn, the crown itself is feminine and small.
This does not go on the head of a king.
TheCorona Ferreais a diadem. It is meant to be worn by a woman.
I lift it from the shadow of the box so I can see it in the light, and everyone around me shifts. Arms up, I take my focus off the crown to see what has changed.
In a circle around me. Everyone—even Nazario Corragio, leaning on his cane—is kneeling with heads bowed in reverence to a twenty-year-old woman holding up an ancient inheritance.
Santino, I wish you were here.
I need you here.
I’m not ready for whatever this is.
* * *
A squareof butter sits in an oily puddle at the center of my pastina, and it’s melting so fast I know it’s too hot.
I am five. I asked Zia Saveria for the pastina. Now I have to eat it, but she’s ignoring me to whisper to some other women I don’t know. There are a lot of people in Nonna’s kitchen.
Rosetta sits cross-armed in front of the grown-up cappuccino she asked for because Nonna would let her have it.
Last night, I went to bed, and now I am awake at Nonna’s house. Mamma’s mother. There are so many people. The grown-ups are upset. I don’t have my Raggedy Ann, so I am upset too.
“Eat,” Nonna says after she blows on the pastina a couple of times.
It works like magic. The porridge is cool enough. I should save some for Raggedy Ann. I want to ask for her, but there are too many people to focus. Nonna with the kerchief and scapular and Nonno with the swagger and beedi smell are here too. They are Papino’s parents. It’s not Sunday. It’s not a holiday or birthday.
“When are we going home?” I ask.
“Never.” Rosetta’s crabby. She’s been like that lately. But she’s never seemed so sad and angry at the same time. She’s scaring me.
“Is it true?” I ask Nonna from Mamma’s side. She’s not as free with the candy as Papà’s mother, but she’s gentle with us.
“Hush, Rosetta,” Nonna answers, looking out the window. She sees something—a bird maybe—and whispers to an older cousin.
“I will not hush!” Rosetta slams her hand on the table so hard the spoon rattles.
“You’re scaring your sister.” Nonna turns toward us with the expression of a wild animal.
“She should be scared.” Rosetta spins in her seat to face me. “Mamma and Papà are dead! They were killed. Papà’s brother and Mamma—!”
“Basta!” Nonna’s arm is made of lightning, grabbing my sister by the hair on top of her head.
“Ow!”
“Say only what you know!”
