He opened the closet and Tito fell out. He was bound and gagged. Achille held him up with one hand, sticking the gun to his temple. Tito’s glasses were gone, and his eyes blinked at me before they fully opened. Once the situation made it to his mind, he shook his head, trying to speak. I knew what he wanted without him having to use words. He was trying to tell me not to sacrifice my life for his.
I couldn’t make the shot.
Unforeseen circumstances.
There was no way I’d sacrifice Tito’s life for mine. The man was the angel who stood between death and me. If anyone deserved to live life, even if it was to save them, it was this man.
“Put the gun down, Vittorio,” Achille ordered, pressing the gun to Tito’s temple even harder. “Now. Or your good uncle is as good as dead.”
Raising my hands in surrender, I let the gun fall to the floor. Tito started to fight, but it was no use. I had already surrendered.
My wife was safe. My son would be safe.
Achille would kill me, but he would never touch them. Rocco would see to it. Especially after I sacrificed my life for Tito’s.
“On your knees, Vittorio,” Achille ordered. “On your knees!” he roared when I refused to move.
I kept my hands up, putting them behind my head, but I refused to kneel. He was going to kill me anyway. I’d be damned if I went down on my knees for any mere man. I only bent, broke, went down for one person on this earth—a woman, my wife.
Slowly, I took my hands down, reaching for the rosary around my neck. I pulled it out and kept it close to my heart.
The gun pressed against the back of my head, and once more, I found peace in my darkest hour.
28
Mariposa
Before Capo left, he had given me a blue box tied with a blue bow. He told me to open it after he left. As soon as he was out of the door, I wasted no time opening it.
The first thing I found was a note on top of blue tissue paper.
Mariposa,
That night, the night I took you to old man Gianelli and Jocelyn, you told me your favorite color was blue. Except you said boo instead of blue. It was the first time since my mother left me that I remembered smiling and feeling it. The last time will be the moment I walk out of the door to our home and think of you—you don’t say boo anymore, but you still do something to me that has no word to define it.
For that, I owe you my life. It wasn’t me that saved you that night, but you that saved me.
What lies beyond the surface of this box cannot bring back what you lost at my hands, but maybe that lost part of you can start to find its way back.
Capo
Under the tissue was an album full of pictures. Photographs that I never thought I’d see. My mom. My mom holding me as a newborn. Numerous pictures of me until I was five. It seemed like she only kept her favorite ones. Photos that were important enough to bury and keep hidden.
I had texted Capo after, spilling my guts. I had been too afraid to tell him in person all of the things I needed him to know, afraid that maybe my words would jinx something, and he’d never come back to me.
He didn’t tell me what he was going to do, but I knew. There was something different about him the entire day.
The way he looked at me.
Like it was the last time.
The way he kissed me.
Like it was the last time.
The way he touched me, like it was the last time.
More than words.
Rocco had been over, and the two of them had a meeting in Capo’s office. I didn’t like the way Rocco looked at me before he left. Like he might be looking at a widow he’d soon be responsible for.
Again, more than words.
Before Rocco left, I slipped a note into his palm. It was a natural gesture, a goodbye handshake, and that was the end of it. I had no problem using all of my words.
I couldn’t keep still, though. I had given Capo my rosary to take with him, and I missed being able to rub the beads between my fingers to ease my anxiety. For the first time since I married Capo, the devil felt close on my heels again.
Slipping on a pair of tennis shoes, I crossed over to the other building, finding Giovanni in the kitchen.
“Any word from my husband?”
He shook his head. “Not since he left.”
I bit my lip and nodded. “I want ice cream.”
He pointed to the freezer. “It is stocked.”
“No. I want vanilla. We have all other flavors but vanilla.”
He watched me for a moment and then called Stefano, his second in charge, into the kitchen. “Mrs. Macchiavello would like you to run to the store for vanilla ice cream.”
“I’m driving,” I said, going for the keys on the hook in a room that housed most of the car keys. A password was needed to get in. The rest of the keys were on our side, in the secret firehouse. Capo thought of everything.
Capo had told Giovanni he had no problem with me going out tonight, as long as one of the men went with me. Which threw up another red flag. Why was he so sure the Scarpones wouldn’t be on the hunt for me?
Giovanni nodded, and Stefano and I went into the garage. The alarm chirped on the red Ferrari and we both slid in. Before I opened the garage, I sent Capo a text.
Me: I’m going with Stefano to get ice cream. We can watch an old movie and drink root beer floats tonight. You’re coming home to me, Capo.
Again, he didn’t text me back. He hadn’t, not since earlier. After I had poured my feelings out to him over an electronic device. All of a sudden it felt…so necessary to tell him all the things.
Truth be told, I didn’t give a damn about ice cream. I was going to Dolce to see where my husband was. To make sure that my nightmare wasn’t coming true—my husband bleeding out on the cement, clutching the rosary in his hands while he left me.
Stefano noticed that we were not going toward the store.
“Mrs. Macchiavello, we are going the wrong way.” He pointed the other way with his finger. “The store is that way.”
I ignored him. He tried again. I still ignored him. I started to go faster, a pressure inside of me that I couldn’t even explain pressing my foot harder on the gas pedal. The pressure was panic.
“Mrs. Macchiavello—!”
Before I could even comprehend what was happening, the rest of the words flew out of Stefano’s mouth in a sort of suspended slow motion: “—a truck!”
Those were the last words out of his mouth before a massive truck came out of nowhere and slammed into the passenger side door of the Ferrari.
It happened so fast that, while the car rolled, my mind hadn’t even had time to catch up. Once it did, we were righted, but everything around me seemed distorted. Blurry. I reached up a hand and touched my head. I hissed. Blood ran along my forehead, stinging my eyes.
“Stefano,” I croaked.
No answer.
I said his name again, groping for him, but there was still no answer. Then I laid a hand on my stomach, wondering if the impact had hurt the baby.
My baby.
Even though tears didn’t come—maybe I was in shock—something came from a part of me that I’d never met before. That something was worry straight from the deepest depths of my heart and soul.
The thought of something happening to my baby sent me into a hollow, silent panic. Then I felt a flutter, a slight movement, and I relaxed, but didn’t feel totally at ease.