by CD Reiss
“This is a feeling you have? Or real information?”
“A feeling.”
“I have the same wish.”
She’s done nothing wrong, but I can’t stand the presence of her hopes. They’re not real. I need facts, and it’s taking all the energy I have not to jump out of my fucking skin.
An engine rumbles. It’s not a hum but a high-pitched reer interrupted by put-puts. Not a truck or train. I can’t see where it’s coming from, so I go into the hall and climb the stairs to the cupola. The sky is orange on the west side and navy blue to the east.
I know why Santino didn’t want me up here. I can see everything in all directions, but I can be seen the same way. With the right gun, I’m a target, and I don’t care. I want to find the source of the noise.
“Mrs. DiLustro,” Dario calls from the bottom of the cupola stairs.
Sure, I feel protected from outsiders, but not from him, even with the gun pressing against my armpit.
He appears from the stairway. I back up. Just then, in the corner of my eye, I see a single line of light coming up the twisting road, and the sight of it becomes one with the sound.
“It’s a motorcycle,” I say.
The road leads to one place. Here. Whoever’s driving that bike, they’re on their way to us. Nothing about the way it’s moving is a sign that it is—or isn’t—Santino.
“It’s a moped,” Dario corrects.
“Don’t try to get me to go downstairs,” I say, distracted by the light coming up the hill. I’m not afraid, and yet… I have a feeling so strong it’s as good as fact.
“Good. You finally understand where you belong.”
He disappears down the stairs.
“And don’t tell me to stay either.”
He probably didn’t hear that last sentence, but it doesn’t matter. I was reminding myself that I can do what I want, for any reason I want.
Santino tried to lock me away so many times and failed. He knows it’s not possible or desirable. That isn’t his order. My husband knows I can’t stand to be sidelined, and at this point, I’m so strung out on constant panic that sitting in the cupola another five minutes would be like a life sentence.
I run downstairs and onto the lawn. Remo runs across the lawn with three other guys, all armed with rifles. I follow them to the gate where Dario waits. Bright security lights illuminate the area outside the gate, leaving those of us on the inside in darkness.
“No!” Dario shouts at me. When I pass him, he grabs my arm. His eyes blaze, lighting up the darkening night. “Inside.”
“He’ll kill you for touching me. And I’ll let him.”
“If you get hurt,” he says over his shoulder, “he’ll try to kill me anyway.”
“I won’t let him.”
He scoffs as if he’s met my husband. Which he has. But he hasn’t met the Santino I know.
The dim beam of light points upward, cresting the last ridge, and comes straight for us. The man driving it is no more than a silhouette, but he’s too big to be Santino. There doesn’t seem to be anyone behind him. How much of a threat could he be?
He keens to the left. Rights himself before falling. Comes straight for a bit before swaying left again. This was the struggle to stay in a line on the way up.
Just before the moped enters the circle of light, Dario makes a sound with his tongue and throat. The men raise their rifles. I hold my breath.
The moped comes into the light and falls sideways, spilling the bloody driver onto the dirt.
It’s Armando.
19
VIOLETTA
Dario holds me back. I twist against his grip. I punch him. I make threats I intend to keep. But he won’t let me near Armando.
“Let me go!”
“He could be wired.”
“He could be dying,” I snap.
With Dario between the gate and me, he lets me push him off.
“What hap—?” Celia says from behind me, brought out by the commotion.
“Get the first aid kit and sheets.” She’s already halfway to the house when I shout the last command. “And alcohol. A lot of it.”
Celia passes Loretta, who follows her to get the supplies. Dario gives up on me and climbs the ladder to the top of the stone guardhouse.
Armando’s on his back just outside the gate. Vito crouches about six feet away from him while the other guys hang back.
“You sure, Mando?” Vito takes a bent step closer. “They didn’t plant nothing on you?”
“Something.” Armando’s booming voice has been reduced to a breathy scratch, and there’s something wrong with his speech.
“What kind of something?”
“It won’t hurt you.”
“Show it to us,” Dario calls from above.
“No. It’s…” He shakes his head and swallows with difficulty. “Only Violetta.”
“They using you to get us to open the gate?” Vito asks.
“Just a message.” He’s talking as if he’s weak and in pain, but even past that, he sounds as if he’s talking with a new mouth.
“We ain’t gonna let her near you. Not before you’re checked. You know that.”
“Then check me, stunad.” Armando groans in pain. “Get to it.”
Vito takes a deep breath and scurries to Armando, opening his jacket. “Oh, Jesus fuck.”
Dario calls from atop a stone pillar, “Faster!”
“I’m sorry, man,” Vito says, gingerly patting down Armando’s body.
I’ve been daring to get closer, but now I’m at the gate, and the angle has changed enough to reveal what upset Vito. Armando’s shirt is gone, and his torso is a mess of blood and tissue. His gut has been cut open.
Blood loss.
Shock.
Infection.
I know how to stabilize him, but I’m not a doctor. I’m not even a nurse.
Face covered in nervous sweat, Vito bolts up to standing position. “He’s clear!”
The men jump down from the posts. The gate opens.
I rush through. “Armando!”
He kind of smiles. He’s missing two teeth, which explains the sudden speech impediment. “Good to see you.”
The men pull him up and bring him inside the gate. It closes. They’re about to drop him, which means they’d have to pick him up again.
“No!” I shout, and they all freeze. “Inside. The dining room table.”
They look at each other like a bunch of clowns.
“Do it,” Dario barks, and they listen, making a disaster of the transport—but these are the men we have, so this is what it is.
Unencumbered, I run ahead into the dining room. The table has a candleholder in the center surrounded by shoeboxes of mismatched dishes and silverware. I throw off everything but the tablecloth.
“Here,” I say, tossing aside the last box as Armando’s brought in. They lay him down. “Hello, Armando, how are you doing?”
Gingerly, I check the damage. The space between his navel and his open waistband is meat. A bullet ripped him open from one side and exited the other. I’m overwhelmed. I don’t know how to fix this.
“I have a message,” he says. The effort sends a spring of blood upward.
“I found this.” Celia drops a red bag with a big white cross onto the table, and I wake up. It’s the super deluxe first responder kit, and I have never been so thankful for anything in my life.
“Sheets and towels.” Loretta drops a pile onto a sideboard.
“What’s the message?” I open the bag and dump it onto the card table. “Open all the gauze. Don’t touch it. Rip the sheets into strips. Someone, get me the alcohol.”
The guys do exactly as they’re told.
“Listen.” Armando coughs. “Violetta.”
“You shouldn’t talk.”
“They got him.”
The sounds of tearing fabric and shuffling feet get far away as I’m sucked into a sensory tunnel where nothing exists outside Armando and me.
“Who?” I’m not stupid. I know who, and I also know asking this man to say a single unnecessary word is cruel and dangerous…but I don’t know how to believe it without his confirmation.
“He’s alive, but…” In Armando’s eyes, past the pain and fear, is an apology.
Why does he look like a man who’s about to console me through his own excruciating pain?
No. Whatever it is, I don’t want to know.
The tunnel widens and disappears. I’m in the dining room again.
“I have to get you stable first. Where’s the fucking disinfectant?!”
Loretta puts a gallon of Smirnoff on the table. “It’s what I found.”
“Inside pocket,” Armando says. “Jacket.”
I unscrew the bottle and hold my hands out to Loretta. They’re shaking. “Pour it.”
She dumps a stream of vodka on my hands. I rub them together, ignoring Dario, who’s rummaging through Armando’s jacket pocket.
“They want the crown,” Armando gasps. “Even my sweet Gia.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“They ambushed us.”
“Oh, fuck,” Dario says when he takes out what’s in the bottom of Armando’s pocket.
“Gia… She’ll trade his life for it.” The wounded man doesn’t have the blood flow to sob for his love, but the sadness and disappointment are unmistakable. “For the crown.”
“Disinfect, Loretta,” I continue to anyone who’ll listen. “Where’s the gauze?”
Remo has ripped open a blue paper envelope, and he’s ready to dump the gauze inside into a dish, but he’s stuck in place. I follow his gaze to Dario, who’s holding a ziplock bag. The plastic is cloudy with condensation, as if something warm and wet was put inside before it was sent into the cold night.
No.
They didn’t. Not for a dumb crown.
“I don’t have it!” I yell. “They have it!”
“I’m sorry, Vuh-vuh…” Armando trails off as if he has no energy to continue.
“Don’t you dare make those your last words,” I bark.
Dario is opening the bag. Nothing I say will make him stop.
I grab a handful of gauze and staunch the bleeding. “Loretta. Hold this here. Someone disinfect Celia. The women are going to hold this man together, am I right, ladies?”
“You need to look at this,” Dario says, looking into the open baggie.
“No, I don’t. You.” I jerk my chin at one of the guys. I’m face-blind with panic. He could be the pope for all I know. “Wash your hands and rip some sheets.”
“You have to confirm this is his or not,” Dario says.
Or not.
Whatever is in the bag could be a mistake or a trick, and if it is, I’ll be able to tell.
Putting pressure on the bleeding, I lean forward. Dario tips the opening toward me. My eyes close because they have a mind of their own…but my curiosity is stronger. I look inside.
It’s a finger.
It has a gold ring on the bottom.
“He’s not breathing!” someone shouts.
I tear my gaze away and put my ear on Armando’s chest. No heartbeat. “Does anyone besides me know CPR?” Celia steps forward. I drop the bag and get on a chair to start chest compressions. “Rescue breathing, okay?”
Celia tilts his head back, and we begin.
“Is it his or not?” Dario demands.
“How the fuck should I know?” I say between counts, then breathe into Armando’s mouth.
“Come on, Mando,” Celia says, her hands on his face. I never realized how big they are. “We ran out of the cherry biscotti. Please. You have to get more.”
Dario holds the bag out to me while I’m trying to save a guy’s fucking life.
“These fucking assholes want a crown they stole.” I deny everything in the rhythm of the compressions. “They should check the goddamn cupboards instead of asking me, and you tell me if it’s his finger and where the crown is because I don’t fucking know.”
I know. I’ve had that finger inside me. I’ve sucked on it. I’ve watched how it moved with its brothers and sisters. How it made a fist. How it looked tucked in the web between my fingers.
But I don’t really know, do I? This could all be a bluff.
“Come on, Mando.” Celia’s voice is getting hopeless. We’re going to lose him.
“What’s engraved inside the ring?” I ask.
If it’s a bunch of numbers, it’s Santino’s. But there won’t be. It’ll be a date with words of tender eternal love. The finger belongs to one of the other guys, and that will be terrible.
“Nothing’s happening,” Celia says, looking into Armando’s glazed eyes.
Dario isn’t squeamish about taking the ring off a dead body part.
“Something has to be happening,” I say without evidence. “Give it a chance.”
Dario is looking inside the ring. I don’t want to know. I don’t.
“It says…”
“I’m counting!” I shout because I don’t want him to finish.
“The bleeding stopped,” Loretta says. “That’s good.”
“No. That’s bad,” I say.
I keep trying. I’m exhausted. My arms ache. I’m sweating myself into a raisin. But I can’t stop. If Armando’s dead, and that ring… I don’t know if I’ll survive if it comes all at once.
“Violetta,” Vito says, putting his hand on my shoulder.
“Shush!”
“I think—”
“Did I ask you what you think?” I turn to Dario. “We have to get him to the hospital. St. Anne’s isn’t too far.”
Everyone in the room seems to know it’s too far over the bridge, even if I won’t admit it. It’s too far a distance, and too long ago. He should have been taken there when the moped was at the bottom of the mountain, but he bled and bled to get up it, and now he’s gone.
Celia lets her hands slide off Armando’s face and puts her forehead to his chin. She weeps. I get off the dining room chair and stand on weak knees.
Dario holds out his hand. The bloody gold ring is in the center. “Do you recognize this? Is it his?”
This cannot be avoided any longer. Closing my fist around the ring, I drop into the chair, close my eyes, and take a breath. I know what I’m going to see.
Goddamn, Armando. You were a good guy. I’m sorry.
“Santino is not your king,” I say, eyes still as closed as the fist holding the ring. “He is mine. He is my country. He’s my kingdom. He’s the earth and the sun to me, and if they have him… If they’re using my entire world as leverage to demand something I don’t have, I consider it a personal insult.” I open my eyes and look at each man individually. “If they have him, I am going to get him. You won’t stop me.” I linger on Dario’s gaze. “I don’t need a crown to kill you for trying. I hope you understand that.”
“Please,” Dario says, unimpressed with my threats. “Read the inside.”
I open my hand. Blood streaks the shiny gold surface. Inside, where a loving couple would share a few words about eternity, the blood has flowed into the engraving and dried into the cut shape of a series of numbers.
I close my fist around it.
20
SANTINO
They cut the tape as a futile act of kindness, but I’m still stuck in a basement with no windows. It smells of mildew and old wine. They bricked in the last wall, leaving one space at the top to let in air—just in case they need me. I’ll die of dehydration before suffocation.
On my back, looking at the crossbeams for the floor above, I watch the boards creak under the weight of Damiano’s soldiers. If this room has a weak point, it’s that old wood and the nails holding down the planks. I can pull apart the electrical conduit. Find something rigid and sharp, then break out of the ceiling into a room of guys who will hear the racket and shoot me before I move a single board.
And that’s even if I can do it all with one working hand.
I
t hurt when they did it. It still hurts. The pain goes from my hand to my shoulder, then to my heart, where Violetta lives. My hand hurts because they took away part of it. My chest hurts because they sent it to her, so she’d worry enough to give them what she doesn’t have.
If she’s smart, she’ll fashion a crown out of tinfoil and wrap it around a bomb.
If she’s wise, she’ll hole herself up and let Dario handle it.
If she’s brave, she’ll tell them to fuck off and they’ll torture her mad before they believe she isn’t hiding what slipped through their fingers.
My queen is smart and wise and brave.
Is there a more dangerous combination in a woman?
There is not.
Before they bricked in the entrance, it was as wide as two doors. They have me in a chair on one side. Damiano stands on the other side. Behind him, Gia’s on a green velvet chair. Its plastic covering has cigarette holes through it. I’ve had too long to digest these details. Between the hours of boredom and the split seconds between getting hit, I see everything.
Where is it? one of the Tabonas asks.
My head’s spinning. Past the stars I keep seeing when I’m hit, the faces are no more distinctive than puddles of spilled coffee.
One of them might be Carlo. He killed Elio, my second cousin and a gifted mechanic, when he wouldn’t work for them. Elio built from parts that looked like they came off the factory floor, and he loved Loretta.
Where is it?
They keep asking, and I keep answering.
Non lo so. I’m too disoriented to speak English. The entire language has packed up and left.
It bothers me that I don’t know how much time has passed. We’re in a windowless basement, and I haven’t been fully conscious the whole time. When did I tell Violetta I’d be back? Yesterday? Tomorrow? Is she all right up there on the mountain?
Thank God she didn’t come.
The whole thing was a setup. The people Violetta calls her Z’s tried to warn me when we approached, but I was thick in the head, rushing to get this easy job done so I could move on to finding Damiano at the quarry. I was looking forward to breaking him, taking the crown, then moving on to a life with Violetta.