by Emma Nichols
“Stop whining. We won’t be long.” She reached into her pocket and handed him a five euro note. “Put this in the box when you take a candle.”
He took the money. “Sure.”
The cathedral bells rang out across the square. They were chiming again when they walked out of the cathedral fifteen minutes later. “See, wasn’t so bad was it?”
He shuddered. “Why is it always so cold in church?”
She smiled at him. “So, how about pizza then?”
They wandered to the fountain and perched on the concrete ledge.
Coins glistened in the shallow water. She threw a euro into the font and closed her eyes.
Roberto removed the satchel and pulled out a box. “What did you wish for?”
“Can’t tell you.” She looked into the box. “Yum, you got my favourite.”
“We use the best salami this side of the mainland. I got them to put all the anchovies on your side.” He picked out a slice of pizza and handed it to her with a grimace.
Simone took a large bite and moaned in pleasure. “This is the best birthday present ever,” she said, wiping a trickle of oil at the corner of her mouth.
Roberto handed her an envelope. “I bet that tops the pizza.”
She saw kindness and anticipation dancing in his eyes. It was a loving mischievous look that made her heart sing. He was looking
expectantly at the envelope in her hand as she ripped it open. “A ticket for the opera.” He beamed a satisfied grin, and a tear slipped onto her cheek.
“I knew you would cry,” he said. “You always cry.”
She wiped at her face and frowned at him. “How can you afford this? A hundred euros.”
He shrugged. “I’ve been getting good tips.” He shoved a piece of pizza into his mouth and continued to speak. “Really…”
“Don’t speak with your mouth full.”
He swallowed. “You’re sounding like Mama again.”
Simone sighed as she chewed. “Do you miss them?” she asked quietly.
“Sometimes.”
“When?”
“I miss Mama’s meatballs.”
“Seriously.” Simone chuckled. Their mother hadn’t been known for her cooking skills. Their father had been the keen chef of the family, and it had been through him that Simone had discovered her passion for food.
“We used to throw them to the birds at the pond.”
“Even they refused to eat them.” Roberto laughed. “You know, fish died as a result of chewing on those meatballs.”
Simone laughed, enjoying the light airy feeling that came when she was around Roberto. He seemed to have a way of making her feel relaxed and frivolous.
“How was work?” he asked.
She didn’t want to talk about Patrina’s foul mood, or Alessandro’s growing addiction, or the fact that she felt trapped, despite her dreams of a new future. She saw a hint of frustration flash across his eyes.
“You don’t have to stay there.”
She smiled through sealed lips. She couldn’t leave the job at the café without there being some kind of price to pay. There was always a price to pay with the Amatos. If she had realised what she was getting into from the start with Patrina, she might have made a different decision. Maybe? Dream on. I never had a choice. At least she got paid well for the work she did and nothing else was expected of her. Their arrangement worked on that level, and she had been able to protect Roberto from being dragged into the mafia.
That fact alone made the work situation bearable. Better the devil you
know, her father had always said. And the Amatos were certainly the epitome of that trait.
“I do.” She looked into Roberto’s eyes and smiled, hoping he didn’t notice the weariness she felt. He didn’t reciprocate. “Tell me about your day.”
4.
Faint scratching noises streamed into Maria’s awareness, and she smiled. With a light thump, Pesto landed on her, punching a groan from her before she opened her eyes. She chuckled, and her arms flailed to guard her face from him as he sought to lick her to death. “Hey, boy.” She yawned and ruffled his short coat. “All right, all right, I know.” She bundled him off her, sat up in the super-king bed, and yawned again.
He inched his nose towards her, tail wagging energetically, then barked twice.
She smiled at the familiar routine. He was her rock, her sanity inside the insane world she’d been born into. She had rescued him as a puppy, a scrawny greyhound-looking mongrel with a chocolate and coffee-coloured short coat. It was the white patch over his eye that captured her heart and the way he had tilted his head and yawned at her. They had instantly bonded, and he had learned quickly. “I need a pee. Be patient.” She patted his head as she climbed out of bed and stretched her arms as she walked to the en-suite bathroom, her nakedness revealed to no one in the privacy of her bedroom. She enjoyed the sense of ease that came with solitude, something she had never experienced with Patrina. Promises had been made but in reality, their relationship had been founded in the worst kind of secrecy; the hiding kind. And hiding meant someone had something over you. There was always a risk of the wrong person finding out. In this case, Stefano, and that would cost her life, and Patrina hers.
Seclusion had been a reason she had chosen the beach house, along with its isolation and the beauty that surrounded it. The single story open-plan villa was modest in both size and design by her family’s standards, and she liked it that way. She was protected and free to live a normal life. With a gated entrance and the fencing monitored by CCTV on the inland boundary, and the seafront and vertical cliffs surrounding the deep set cove, she could run for miles along the webbed pathways and not see, or be seen by, anyone. It was safe.
Pesto dropped one of her training shoes at her feet as she sat on the toilet.
She chuckled. “So much for patience.”
He ran out of the room, and she waited for him to return with her other shoe. It was the same routine every day. She stood, flushed the toilet, splashed water on her face, and picked up her running gear. “Come on, then. Let’s go.”
He barked at her while leaping from his front to his rear paws, span around in circles, and jumped up at her with his tongue lolling from his mouth. Maria laughed. It took more effort to avoid his increasingly enthusiastic affections than it did to get dressed. Shoelaces tied in a double knot, she cupped his ears, and stared into his big dark eyes. “You ready to run, Pesto?” He tugged away from her and ran to the door. “Wait, I need water.” She jogged to the fridge, grabbed a bottle, and twisted the cap off.
She took a long slug as she made her way to the door.
Squinting into the early morning sun, she stepped onto the beach terrace overlooking the cove. She tipped water into his bowl and threw the bottle into the bin, but Pesto was already at the sea’s edge, nosediving the shallow water exploring as if it had never existed before this morning.
She visually traced a line from the tall cliffs bounding one side of the bowl-shaped cove to her cruiser, the Bedda , moored at the edge of the cove on the opposite side. The fine sand beneath her feet to the stark blue line defined the meeting of sea and sky, and the light gold of the shallower waters became teal and then a deeper shade of blue. The sea was picturesque, giving the illusion of stillness, sufficiently silent for Maria to notice the pounding of her heart. She had always enjoyed these moments of silence. Being in nature energized her. She sighed. Her father had joked that she had a greater love of wildlife than she did for her fellow man. It was true. She felt a particular affinity with sea. Nature wouldn’t break her heart as people did, as her father had done when he died. He had smiled tenderly the day she lectured him on the merits of nature over man, the glint in his eye shining brighter with every statement she put to him. Nature just is as it is. It doesn’t judge, doesn’t criticize, doesn’t alienate. It doesn’t fear.
She pinched the bridge of her nose and stemmed the tears that welled in her eyes. I miss you.
&
nbsp; She looked down the beach to her right from the Bedda along the arc of the cove to see Giovanni standing barefoot in the shallower water at the beach, fishing rod in hand. He delved into a sack attached to his belt, attached bait to the line, and cast the rod in the direction of the rocks that fed the base of the cliff. He hadn’t spoken to her about Don Calvino’s death,
and although he concealed his emotions well—as was necessary in this job
—she had noticed the strain on his face. The taut flesh pulled across his cheeks, his strong jaw more defined in shape, the hollowness behind his eyes more pronounced. He had become distant and his thoughts impossible to read in the way they hadn’t been before. She had always been able to read him instinctively, and he her, but not so much now. Muted conversation and unwarranted hesitancy divided them. He too had withdrawn.
Maria sighed, the calmness of the sea unable to ease the niggling sensation in her gut that wouldn’t go away whenever Patrina came to mind.
Patrina, Patrina. All those years with Patrina as her lover in an affair that never existed beyond the walls of the penthouse suite. False promises had turned to convenience. The relationship had suited them both. Patrina didn’t have the courage to leave Stefano. Had she been naïve to think things might change and that Patrina would pick her over her loyalty to the business?
Patrina had stopped talking about a potential future together after Stefano was sentenced, when her power at the helm of the Amato enterprise increased. Maria’s heart still ached with the illusion of what might have been. Even though the reality hadn’t been perfect, Patrina had been her first and only lover, and that was something special. These feelings will pass with time.
She shifted her attention to the sun rising in the sky. “It’s going to be a hot one,” she said for no one to hear. Pesto entertained himself in the water, already a hundred metres up the beach to the right. Watching him exploring made her smile. She held onto the balustrade with both hands and stretched out her shoulders. She continued to hold onto the support with one hand while lunging gently to stretch the tired muscles of her legs, hips, and lower back. Even following an extreme fitness regime, there was always residual tension that needed easing out. Stress came with the job. She stepped onto the beach and started to jog towards the sea. Finding damp, solid sand, she maintained a steady pace heading away from the villa in the opposite direction to Giovanni and towards the cliff.
Pesto bounded back towards her, nose in the air. He ran straight past her, dipped his face into the shallow water, and then sprinted back past her again. He picked up a stick the sea had cast off, dropped to his haunches, and chewed on it then ran with it for a while, juggling it between his teeth.
Unceremoniously, he dropped it in front of Maria as she jogged. She
skipped over the obstacle before she stopped and threw it back into the sea.
He swam after it and returned it to her feet again. She ignored the stick, upped her pace to a sprint, and when he caught up with her, stick in mouth, she slowed down again. They continued with the game until the edge of the cove at which point Maria took the path leading inland. Pesto abandoned the stick and sprinted ahead of her to take their usual route, up and around the front of the estate in a loop that would bring them back to the villa after eight kilometres.
Maria looked at her watch as she jogged the last few paces to the veranda. Forty-two minutes. “Good job, Pesto.” She stood recovering her breath, hands on her hips, while Pesto lapped from his bowl and flicked water across the veranda. She wiped the sweat from her face, the gentle ebb and flow of the sea encouraging her pulse to slow. Giovanni was still fishing. The cruiser’s white bows glistened against the rising sun, and there was a little movement on the water. Maybe she would dive later.
She went to the side of the house shaded by the terraced roof, put her boxing gloves on, and started to spar. She pounded the hanging bag with short, fast punches in a steady, even rhythm. She shifted to faster movements in a pattern of two-to-one, jab-jab-cross, bouncing on her toes to adjust her position and enable maximum impact.
She began to grunt with each punch, becoming louder as she pushed the boundaries of her comfort until she let out a final shout as she landed the last punch. She bent over, fighting for breath. “Fuck, that hurts, but it feels fucking great.” Pesto’s ears flicked, but his eyes remained closed. She straightened up, puffing hard, and pulled off the gloves and placed them on the bench. She made her way to the kitchen, pulled a bottle of water from the fridge, released the cap with shaking hands, and emptied the bottle in one hit. She reached for the box of dog biscuits on the countertop, and as she tipped some into Pesto’s metal bowl, he came running into the house.
He sat to attention, waiting. She ruffled his neck as she lowered the bowl to the floor. “Not much escapes you, does it, boy?”
She loaded the filter with coffee, flicked the switch, and waited for the aroma. She poured a small glass of orange juice from the fridge and drank it, then filled the creamer with milk and set it to heat. She poured the coffee and went to the veranda. The routine was comforting and the vista calming.
Giovanni cast his line into the water. Pesto looked up at her. She smiled. “Come on, boy, let’s take Giovanni a coffee.”
Pesto jumped to his feet and ran onto the beach.
5.
Light grey, matt painted walls towered the corridors that led to a web of cells sprawling across the footprint of the prison. From the west wing to the east wing, metal railings defined boundaries, and steel doors segregated individual spaces; every man’s cell a prison within the prison.
Stefano had described it to her, complained about the ringing and clanging and the constant echo that reverberated around the inner walls of the prison.
But what he had to endure was nothing by comparison with the incarceration in which Patrina existed. She was a mafia boss’s wife. That was her destiny. This prison, this corridor, was no colder and no more austere than her life had become. At least Stefano lived within a community here, respected by those who surrounded him. At least most of them did.
She had no one.
Simone imagined the softness of Maria’s lips, her tongue driving her to a state of senseless ecstasy, and she felt instantly enveloped in a fuzzy sense of hope and expectation. Maria hadn’t meant what she had said at the penthouse suite. She shook her head. They would find their place, together again. They always did. Maria needed her as much as she needed Maria.
The guard’s heavy footsteps and the clip of Patrina’s heels resounded in the corridor. They passed through a door and an offensive, overpowering, musty male odour hung in the air, and disinfectant gave off a nauseating aroma. Always smells like piss.
“Lady Amato.”
The guard addressed her with her formal title though he didn’t bow his head as others would feel compelled to do in her presence.
He held open the door to the small room. “You have ten minutes.”
A dense Perspex screen split the room in two with her chair on one side and his on the other. She welcomed the physical barrier that separated them. As she made herself comfortable, the seat effused a new perfume. A wife? A lover? She played both parts, though favoured the latter, and only with a woman. She sighed and closed her eyes. Maria. She couldn’t imagine taking another lover. No. She blinked her eyes open and took a deep breath, then straightened her posture. She needed to portray strength to Stefano, though he always made her feel weak. She was in control. She was
the voice of the Amato business. Though she sensed it slowly slipping through her fingers with Alessandro’s increasing involvement. No one must know she was losing control. It would be the death of her.
The door closed with Stefano Amato facing her on the other side of the screen. He moved in the silence the barrier created between them and sat. He picked up the phone on the wall that linked to the phone on her side then indicated with his cold stare for her to pick up the handset.
“You had a haircut,” she said. T
he short white hair, tight to his scalp, matched the length of the stubble around his chin. He looked younger for the close trim. She smiled. He didn’t.
“How is business?”
His deep, commanding tone hadn’t changed since his incarceration.
The tingling in her neck crept down her spine as it always did. She tried to breathe softly to abate the trembling in her stomach. She adjusted her position in the seat. Nothing worked. “Business is good.”
He nodded. “How is Alessandro? You are teaching him well, I hope?” He leaned towards the screen and glared through narrow eyes.
Had he always been as menacing? As handsome as he was, the sight of him now made her heart thump, and her instincts urged her to escape his presence. The Perspex didn’t stop her fear. That he was a brute, she had always known. He had been charming…once. Even so, the best part of a lifetime together, and she had never known the tenderness with him that she had experienced with Maria. She craved the gentle touch of a woman…one woman.
She softened her smile and pouted. It was a game. Men were so easily distracted.
He licked his lips.
“Alessandro is like his uncle. He has a strong will,” she said.
He leaned back, nodding his head and smiling smugly, before he crossed his arms. “He has a good brain for business.”
He doesn’t. She smiled. “He is ambitious.”
Stefano looked vacantly. “That’s good. Very good. He will learn quickly.”
He’s as thick as shit. She wanted to tell him about her concerns and that Alessandro was impulsive and likely to bring down the Amato empire.
But that could make her look weak, and if Stefano lost faith in her, God only knew what he would do. He would think the worst of her long before
he could see his nephew and heir’s reckless behaviour clearly. Blood was thicker than water. If Stefano wanted to, he would ensure Alessandro was elected Don in his absence. And if that happened, she would be history.