Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
As I trudge along, I wish, and not for the first time, that one of these days he'll go out and never come back. But the wish seems to be backfiring lately. He's coming home earlier and earlier, his ugly and unfounded suspicions clinging to him like a bad smell. It worries me, this new shift in his attention. This new jealousy. I keep out of all his affairs, the dark underbelly of deals and violence. In this world, I'm always last in anyone's mind, the decorative wife who can be discarded the moment the winds change. I could be gunned down at any moment, and no one would blink.
The house looms ahead, a grand Italianate villa with manicured lawns and wrought-iron gates. It brings to mind that old saying, ‘money can’t buy taste’. A few of Salvatore's men linger outside, their black suits sharp against the white stone steps, cigarettes dangling from their lips. Made men, all of them, with that hard-edged stare that makes my skin crawl. But something feels off today. Eerie, like the air before a storm. The usual low mutter of conversation is completely absent. One of them, Tony, I think—tall and gaunt with a scar across his cheek—nods at me politely and gestures for me to go inside with him.
He leads me through the foyer. The silence in the house has a different quality. Our footsteps echo on the marble floor, as we go past the crystal chandelier throwing rainbows across the walls. We enter the study, a regal room with dark wood paneling, leather-bound books that no one reads lining the shelves, and the massive oak desk that Salvatore rules from.
"Have a seat, Senora," Tony says, his voice flat.
I hate being ordered around by Salvatore’s staff, but a strong feeling of unease tugs at me. Something is very wrong. The ride, Tony’s strange demeanor, the gnawing unease I feel. I sink quickly into one of the high-backed chairs.
His eyes meet mine, and he comes straight to the point. “I’m sorry to inform you, Senora, that your husband is dead. He was shot while he was at The Store.”
The Godfather of the Greco Mafia clan is dead!
The shock is such that at first, the words bounce off me like a bad joke. My mind blanks, unable to process them. But of course, it’s not a joke. I try my best to react with the right expression, not let even a flicker of my real emotion show on my face. Inside, questions swirl. How? Salvatore, with his army of guards, shot? Just like that? It seems impossible.
"How... how is that possible?” I ask slowly.
"The boss went to the back to take a piss. A junkie came out of nowhere, pulled a fucking gun on him and tried to rob him. You know how the boss is. He refused to hand over his wallet, and the stupid junkie fired. Only one shot, but he got the boss right in the chest. By the time our guys got there, he’d run out through the back door.”
Even though my face is schooled into a dull sadness, I feel nothing for the dead man. No grief, no love, but I do experience a detached sort of wonderment and curiosity. "And the guards? Why weren’t they with him?”
“The boys were waiting outside. That’s just how the boss always wanted it. He found it too cramped in there with them. It happened too fast. Before they could intervene.”
A cold wave of astonishment slides over my skin at life's twisted irony. All those hateful rivals gunning for him, the endless threats whispered in dark corners, the sophisticated security detail he employed, and it's a random junkie who ends it all? And of all places in his tiny fruit shop where he felt so safe, he banned his own guards. I think of his bloated body surrounded by crates of oranges and bananas…
A strangled burst of laughter threatens to slip out, but I keep my expression calm, schooled into the perfect mask I've worn for years. My voice is steady. "I see."
Tony watches me for a long moment, like he's waiting for tears or hysterics that don't come. He straightens, clearing his throat. "The Capo's instructions were clear before... well, you know. Anyway, you don’t have to worry about a thing. We'll handle all the arrangements. You should rest."
I nod and rise slowly. My legs feel like lead. I can feel Tony’s eyes on my back as I walk toward the door and open it. The hallway blurs a little as I make my way upstairs. The polished banister feels cold and smooth under my palm. I get into my bedroom and shut the door behind me. Alone at last, I walk on shaky legs over to the full-length mirror by the window. The afternoon light filtering through sheer curtains casts soft shadows across the room. The air smells faintly of lavender from the old-fashioned sachets the housekeeper puts in the drawers; a scent that's supposed to calm, but I now associate with confinement.