My throat tightens. "It’s just Marcello. He asked if I was okay. That’s all."
His nostrils flare. "What did you tell him?"
"Nothing."
He moves toward me, limping slightly. The kind of limp that’s all for show. I grip the phone tighter, resisting the urge to hide it behind my back like a child caught cheating. He snatches the phone from my hand, and my breath catches as he reads the screen. Thank God I haven't said anything. He would kill me.
He hits send on the text I typed out. Seconds later, a new message appears.
Marcello:
I haven't seen you since I got back. Let's get together.
Roberto's eyes move over the message, and I try desperately to read over his shoulder. "He's been asking me every week. I can't keep putting him off, he'll get?—"
He backhands me like a pesky fly, and my head whips to the side. I taste blood, but remain on my feet. Tears sting my eyes. "Please."
Roberto's eyes are glazed over from the alcohol and thepainkillers. "Now you're nagging me? While I'm in mourning?"
My body begins to shake; I know that tone of voice too well. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean?—"
Slap.
This time I fly against the couch. He holds his hand because he hit me with the one that's injured. "Fucking bitch," He curses.
I cower against the couch.
He throws the phone at me, and it lands with the corner against my forehead. I shrink back from the pain but manage to grab the phone before it falls to the floor.
"Tell him to come over for dinner Thursday night," Roberto demands.
My hands are shaking so badly that I have to erase and retype my words multiple times, which makes Roberto huff in impatience. Tears blind my vision, making it even harder to complete the simple task of sending a text.
Me:
How about Thursday night for dinner?
The reply comes almost immediately.
Marcello:
Perfect. Can't wait to see you.
Roberto begins to pace. "This might be a good thing. With the possibility of Carlos going to jail, Marcello will be the next capo." He turns to me, narrows his eyes, and says, "You better not say a word, do you hear me?"
With frightened eyes that I imagine are as big as saucers, I nod, while my heart is beating in wild staccato. Yes, Thursday. With any luck, this will be over then.
Roberto smiles as he pours himself another large drink.
That terrifying, wolfish smile I hate more than anything.
"Well, aren’t you just the perfect little actress?" he sneers, not making any sense as usual. "Lying to him. Lying to me. You know who else lied? My father. And look where that got him."
I freeze. I know this about him, too. He's talking himself into a rampage. One that usually ends with me black and blue.
"Dead men can’t lie," he adds, in a near sing-song voice.
There’s a long, weighted silence between us. My heartbeat is so loud, I swear he can hear it. Then, mercifully, he turns away. Limping back toward the liquor cart like nothing just happened. Like, he didn’t just threaten me with the corpse of his father.
