Page 95 of Mafia Queen
I hit the brakes, swerve, and let God decide his fate.
The man raises his arms in front of him. By the time I see the gun he’s aiming at me, it’s too late to duck.
God will decide both our fates.
28
SANTINO
Science lab. Ninth grade. Sal Renzi shook the test tube over a burner. He wasn’t supposed to, and I don’t remember what was in the tube, but I rememberil professor Campigrabbing his wrist and saying, “A little science is more dangerous than complete ignorance.”
I should have stayed in school, but I failed more thanil professor Campi’sbiology class. Over Zia Paola’s objections, I stopped going. Complete ignorance seemed like a reasonable choice for me. Gia and Tavie finished school. Tavie’s dead. Gia will be soon.
But not today.
The rusty hacksaw blade she found in the back of an otherwise empty drawer wouldn’t cut all the way through the pipes, but it would open one just enough.
After stamping out the cigarette, I told her which pipe to cut on her side. I said the fumes would kill her if she didn’t leave as soon as she smelled it.
She thought I was trying to end it all by gas inhalation instead of a bullet, so she did it, and she ran away when it started to smell.
“Goodbye, Santi,” she said at the steps as the pipe hissed. “I’ll see you on the other side.”
“Sure, you will.”
She ran up. I lit a cigarette, took a drag, and after a minute of guesswork, I threw it through the hole in the wall.
The explosion knocked out a section of the exterior wall, and the debris protected me from the flames that would have killed me.
Stumbling on the street, I barely remember what happened next. I have a brick in my right hand, and when I drop it, spots of burned skin stick to it. The cool night air brushes over my body where my shirt’s been singed away.
The gun is in my back pocket, and my ears are ringing like a scream.
There’s no traffic on the streets, so the sirens from the volunteer fire station pass quickly, a block away. That has something to do with me, but I can’t find the will to care.
If we’re convincing enough, she’ll have it.
In all this pain and confusion, the map of the town has been erased from my memory, but I walk toward the mountain, toward Torre Cavallo, toward her. When rain clouds my view, I follow streets that slope upward.
If she don’t fight, we’ll let her live.
At a point I can’t define, my ears stop ringing, and the rain turns to mist. Still walking, I take stock of the situation. My shirt is made of a back and sleeves. My right palm has a splatter pattern of raw skin. The pain where my finger was removed is like an old friend. My head hurts. The headache is the worst because it blinds me, and I’m afraid that when I get to her, I won’t be able to see well enough to protect her.
It’s taking candy from a baby.
In front of St. Paul’s church—the one I burned down so no other man would try to marry Violetta in it—is a makeshift shrine with candles and flowers. A concerned citizen of Secondo Vasto left a bowl for offerings to rebuild the church. I scoop the money out onto the ground and drink the rainwater. The headache stalls. My mind clears. The rain slows to a fog.
I’ve been making my way to her like a sleepwalker, but now that I’m awake, I run.
The streets I’ve lived on all these years reveal their secrets, sloping upward at increased grades with every block. I know where to go, and I won’t stop until I get there. The turn up the mountain is right ahead. The slope will increase, and there’s not enough energy in my bones to get me to her, but I don’t stop running on the empty avenue, following the yellow centerline as if it’s an electrified track, and I’m on metal wheels.
The lights ahead are tiny. Then bigger. It’s a car, and unlike the ones parked all over town, this one’s already running. I need it to get up the mountain.
29
VIOLETTA
A web of cracks explodes across the windshield. A hard little breeze—warm as a man blowing in my ear—whooshes against the side of my head. A part of me says I need to take my foot off the brake and just mow him down, but my body’s been driving without the help of my mind for too long, and I stop. My head bops against the steering wheel, hard enough to throw the crown onto the dashboard but light enough to keep my wits about me.
