“You do?”
“Yeah, I do. She’s at home, in our bed, sleeping. My wife. You fucked with my wife, Quillo. You touched her when she was a child in your care. What should have been a safe place, you made into a scum prison. You wanna know why I did what I did? Why I saved Marietta Bettina Palermo?” I rolled my teeth over my lip.
“I saved her because she was innocent. I traded my life so her innocence could live. And then you know what I learn, Quillo? I learn that a sick fuck made her believe that kindness was a nasty thing. That it came withstrings. You took all that I sacrificed for her and twisted it up. You took that innocence and made her feel ashamed. You made something that was supposed to be clean, the only time in life it can be, seem filthy by putting your hands on her. How do you think I feel about that, Quillo? What do you think I’ll do to make sure you never do it again? Not to mine. Not to anyone.”
He didn’t say anything for a while. He didn’t even try to deny it or defend it. He couldn’t. There are some men who will sit and listen to excuses. Not this one. There was no excuse that could save his life. Business matters could be negotiated, but a personal offense? Unforgivable.
He was sweating again, his lips pursed. “You fell in love with her. You fell in love with Palermo’s kid.”
I smiled and Quillo moved his head back in response, but he was about to use anger to cover his fear. Old habits die hard, but I never forgot.
He pounded the table with his fist. The gun trembled. “You fucking love her! The spawn of that fucker Palermo! He was as evil as your father! My sister. She was a good girl. She didn’t deserve what happened to her! And you sat there and watched it. And now you sit in front of me and condemn me when your conscience is as filthy as they fucking come. You watched them tear my sister in two, and you felt nothing! She wanted you to love her! Shelovedyou. And you couldn’t even say it. You didn’t even fight for her! And now you marry Palermo’s daughter. A whore! A bi—”
I leaned across the table and grabbed him by his throat again, and this time, he tried to fight me. He clawed at the glove but was otherwise subdued. “You’re out of shape, Quillo. All those rich, fatty meals have gone straight to your heart. All that wheezing.” I shook my head. “It’s not good. Careful with that mouth, or I’ll have to take that tongue out. Open your airway up a bit.”
Once he relaxed and stopped fighting me, I released him, and he fell into the chair again. He wheezed this time, banging on the table for air. I picked up the gun, examined it, and then set it down when he calmed.
“This is not about love. This is about loyalty. Respect. Something your family never knew anything about. So.” I pushed the gun toward him. “What’ll it be? The gun or me?” I smiled at him, showing some teeth.
He snatched the gun from the table, put it to his temple, and closed his eyes. He shot me the bird, said, “Fuck you,Pretty Boy Prince. I’ll see you in hell one day,” and then pulled the trigger.
Click.
It took a second, but his eyes sprang open when he realized the gun was empty.Click. Click. Click.His finger was frantic as it continually pulled the trigger.
I threw my head back and laughed. “They might’ve killed me, but some things always stay the same, Quillo. Apparently, the same goes for you. You never learn.” I sighed. “You should know better. I’d never go that easy on you.” Then I rose from my seat and hit him so hard in the chest that I felt his bone crack against my glove. Then I set my hand over his mouth and nose, draining the life out of him.
13
Mariposa
“What do you think, Vera II? Should we add more rosemary? More basil? Or how about thyme?” I lifted it to my nose and sniffed too hard. Then I sneezed and coughed. “A little of that will go a long way. But rosemary? I love the smell of it.” This time, I didn’t put the bottle up so close.
Vera II looked exactly like Vera I, except her pot was different. After Capo had shown me around, and I started to get comfortable, I noticed Vera II sitting on the table next to my side of the bed, right next to the watch. The original Vera’s leaves were skimpy, and the same was true for Vera II. I could’ve sworn they were the same plant, but I knew better.
How could he have given me the same plant?
It just seemed odd, how alike they were. And I would’ve thought that he would’ve bought a plant with more aloe to it.
This time around, I swore to bulk Vera II up. She already had a dose of plant food for succulents. Every once in a while I moved her around so she’d have equal amounts of light and rest.
During one of my doctor’s appointments—that was a term during our meeting, I had to see a few of them since I hadn’t in years—I read while in the waiting room. The magazine stated that talking to your plants makes them grow faster. It also said that plants seemed to react to female voices better than they did male ones. So whenever I was home alone, Vera II and I had conversations.
Since I was making dinner and home alone, she got an earful. I could’ve called Keely, but I decided not to.
I’d been married for two weeks, and even though I talked to Kee, it wasn’t often, and our conversations seemed…short. I knew she still loved me, but she was struggling with Harrison’s romantic feelings and my platonic ones after he confessed to me how he felt. We were on unsteady ground. We usually talked about everything—mostly how we were going to survive—but since everything had been turned upside down, we traded what we once called “poor people’s problems” for “rich people’s problems.”
It was an entirely new world to me, and I was still playing catch up. So many things that I’d written in my journal were happening all at once. And somewhere deep down, a dark fear ate at me. I kept waiting for the shoes that fit to disappear, and the ones that were too tight (and used to make me bleed) to reappear.
I looked down at my feet. They were bare. I loved the way the floors in the fire station felt beneath them. Cool. Clean. And in some rooms, so soft I wanted to cry.
This place. It smelled like home to me. Itfeltlike home. I never wanted to leave, and since I’d arrived, I’d only gone out to meet with the wedding planners at Rocco’s office, have the fittings for my second wedding gown, and buy groceries. I had a sleek black card that my husband insisted that I use. It had my name on it,Mariposa Macchiavello,and no limit.
The black card was nothing compared to my new I.D. and passport, though. My eyes welled at that one.
“How about this, Vera II? Does this consistency look right to you?” I lifted the bowl, showing my plant the mixture I’d made to go between the layers of the pasta boiling on the stove. I was trying to makelasagne al forno. When Capo brought me here after the wedding, a full tray of it had been in the fridge. It was the best thing I’d ever tasted, so I looked in one of my many cookbooks and found a recipe for it.
As of yet, I hadn’t made a meal that truly tasted good, but since I had nothing but time on my hands, I was determined to get it right at some point. Setting the bowl down, I decided to get the ingredients I’d need for an Italian cream cake. It was sort of like trying to touch the tops of two mountains in one day, but go big or go home. Either way, win or lose, I was square.
