“You’re going home, Mariposa,” I had answered in the same language. It was mostly all she’d spoken. Her father spoke mostly Italian at home, but on the streets, English. Her mother left Sicily and went straight to America. Her English was limited.
Her eyebrows drew in. “To your house.”
I didn’t answer and she continued to stare at me, her legs so short that they hardly reached the end of the seat.
“Do you know what Mariposa means?” I asked her.
She shook her head.“Non.”
Non ho capito. She didn’t understand.
“It means butterfly,” I said.“Farfalla ma in spagnolo.”
She thought it over for a minute before she nodded.
If the Scarpones found Mariposa, the game would be different. No longer would I have nothing for them to steal or to blow up. No longer would I be a ghost, but a man with everything to lose.
She was the one thing in this world that was worth something to me.
Everything.
She had been worth everything to me ever since that cold night in December when she’d asked me to color with her, when she had given me the rosary because she said thatIwas fidgeting. She had unnerved me the first time I saw her. Looking at her was like looking at my future, and unless she lived, the rest of my life didn’t seem to matter. It was like trading my evil so one ounce of good would be left in the world.
“Fucka me,” I breathed out. Where was I before I had gone too fucking soft?Mariposa fidgeting.
Her mamma, Maria, knew that about her, and instead of her giving her something childish, like a soft blanket or a stuffed toy, she had given Mariposa the rosary to caress when she was anxious. When I saw her doing it in church, after my grandfather’s funeral, it brought me back to when she was five, and I couldn’t help but question how much more Maria had instilled in her, even at that young age.
Get the fuck outta here, Capo. Thinking of your wife while onScarpone territory is only going to get you killed.
Not yet.
I flipped the headlights on, snow swirling in their beams. I set the gears and pulled off. I’d go to a separate building before going home. I’d use the connecting buildings to walk to another one, and then take another car, leaving from a different exit. I’d know if they were following me. I tracked them all on my computers.
Even computers didn’t inspire enough trust, though. That was why my wife was in the firehouse. Even if they blew up the other building, she was safe on the other side. Besides, the entire block was “owned” by Luca Fausti, Rocco’s father. No one touched him. If they did, they’d regret it.
The Scarpones wouldn’t even drive down that block, much less put a finger on one of his properties. Luca Fausti disliked Arturo. Always had. And after Marzio had filled him in on what had happened to me, he was all too eager to put his name on the block as a front.
Still. I took one extra step to make sure Mariposa was safe. The abandoned firehouse wouldn’t get a second glance.
Though, I didn’t fucking like the Scarpones seeing her, getting that close to her, like they’d done in Italy. They knew that if anything would draw me out, it would be my grandfather’s funeral. I’d been seconds away from being discovered when Rocco—actually, my wife, since she came looking for me—stopped them.
At the time, I didn’t care. It was easier to die than to feel the pain of losing the man who taught me everything about living. Thenmia farfallabrought me back. The life in her made me hungry again.
I hit the break when a man jogging down the street decided to cross. He ran right in front of my car, slowing when he made it past the hood. He stopped for a second, putting his hands on his hips, breathing heavy. The wolf tattoo on his hand stood out, the glow of my lights highlighting the ink. He narrowed his eyes on the car, trying to see through the tinted windows. He couldn’t.
“Joker.” My voice was low, rough. “You’re trying to see someone who doesn’t exist anymore.”
I lifted my hand in greeting. He narrowed his eyes again but didn’t move. I took off slowly, watching him through the rearview mirror. He moved from the curb and stood in the middle of the street, trying to read the license plate.Be my guest. He’d get some random name and number.
He was always a stupid motherfucker. Couldn’t see beyond what was right in front of his face.
Yeah, my wife was protected from them, from this life of vengeance I chose. The jury was still out on my fate. I didn’t know who was more dangerous to me—the Scarpones or her.
22
Mariposa
He was late. I was too, but that was beside the point.
