“What brings you here, Arturo,” Rocco said, totally dismissing the man with the strange name.Achille.
I saw fire in Achille’s dark eyes then. He didn’t like being dismissed. I watched the two strange men carefully after that. Something about Arturo made me want to take a giant step back, but Achille made me feel like he breathed down my neck even though he stood across from me.
My breath caught in my throat when I noticed Achille’s hand. He had a tattoo. Both of them did. Arturo had one on his wrist, and Achille had one in the same spot as Capo, on the front of his hand. Black wolves. The eyes were different. All darkness, no blue like Capo’s wolf.
I forced myself to look away, not to draw attention.
Arturo looked at me and then back at Rocco. “Is this your wife?” A second later, he held up his hands. “I don’t want to seem rude.”
Rocco grinned, but it was far from friendly. “You know of my wife,” he said. “This is Amadeo’s wife.”
“Amadeo,” Arturo repeated. He seemed to be thinking the name over. “Stella’s son?”
“You don’t belong here today,” Rocco said, no longer subduing the irritation in his voice. “The family grieves. Your presence will be taken for what it is, an insult.”
“I heard about the old man,” Arturo said, shaking his head sadly. “I was sorry to hear it. I was hoping to deliver my condolences in person.”
Sorry my ass,I almost said. I had no idea who he was, but he was such a fake. And Achille refused to look away from me. He watched me with hard eyes, eyes that made me want to shrink into my skin and disappear.
“I’m Achille,” he said slowly, reaching out a hand to take mine. I kept mine close, refusing to touch him. He grinned at my discomfort. He was the type who knew and enjoyed it. Achille wasMerv the Perv, the Remake,but more dangerous. He wouldn’t run out of breath. “They don’t make girls likeyou—”he pointed at me “—in America. If you were not married, maybe I’d be interested in making anarrangementwith your family. I wonder how much you’d cost.”
It dawned on me then…he thought I spoke only Italian. That was why he was speaking to me like I was slow.Stupid ass.
Rocco pushed me behind him and got in Achille’s face. He stared at Achille in a way that made me cower. I took his shirt in my hand, holding on.
“You do not belong here,” Rocco spoke to Arturo, but he stared at Achille. “Take your boy and leave. If you want to deliver your condolences in person, you will call first. The family has not warmed toward you, and I doubt they will after today. Send flowers. That is appropriate if you feel you must express your grief.”
Arturo stood still for a minute. His eyes moved between the situation—us—and the church, and finally he sighed. Arturo put a hand on hisboy’sshoulder and pulled him back, thanking Rocco in Italian for his time. Achille snapped his teeth at me before he followed Arturo’s command to leave.
As Rocco watched them go, he made a phone call. He spoke in rapid Sicilian. He was sending men to watch the Americans. After they left, he put his hand on my lower back, urging me toward the doors to the church. He opened one for me, but he made no move to enter.
“Are you coming?” I said.
“In a minute. I have another call to make.”
I hesitated.
“Do not be afraid, Mariposa. I will not allow them to hurt you.”
“Are they…bad men?”
“Sì. They are two of the worst. If you ever see them on the street, turn the other way. Are we clear?”
“Crystal.” I knew they were bad news, but I was hoping he’d give me a little more information.
Leaving Rocco to make his call, I entered the church. It was quiet, and in the stillness, memories from our second wedding assaulted me. The day had brought so much joy.
Nonno.
I’d never forget how alive he was. Hours ago, he was a silent figure in a coffin.
Churches were like hospitals in that way. The invisible line between life and death were constantly being tripped over.
My heels barely made a sound as I walked, but when I entered into the actual church, I stopped and hid in the shadows. Capo sat on one of the pews, and Gigi sat right next to him, her hand on his shoulder. When she started to cry, he reached out and squeezed her neck.
“Amadeo,” she sniffed. Then she rested her head against his shoulder.
I never thought of myself as a vengeful person. I never had a good enough reason to get someone back. Most of the time, if a person made me run, I kept running to keep out of trouble. But on a day when so much had been sealed, never to be opened again, it was still hard to tame down the sudden urge to hurt her. Hurt her as much as she was hurting me.
