My wife waited outside of the car.
“Tell me what’s on your mind, angel eyes.”
“Tomorrow,” she said. “All I can think about is tomorrow.” She kissed her palm and held it up for me, and then got in the car and left.
* * *
I wentabout the rest of my day as usual, except that I made sure my wife and family were doing okay on the road and that they had checked into the resort.
I called my sister-in-law in Italy, making sure the plans I had in place were all secure. In case something should happen to me, I sent her letters and arrangements for all of the money.
I sent all of the men home. Turned off all of the alarms in the house.
This was between us, and he wasn’t going to ring the doorbell.
I sat down and ate a meal fit for a king at a table hand-carved for one. My wife and mother-in-law had cooked for me before they left.
Pasta alla Norma.
Caponata.
Arancini.
Blood orange salad.
And a few other specialties.
I finished the meal off with cannoli. My wife was known for them back home. She left an assortment, but my favorite was pistachio.
It brought me back to my time in Bronte. The groves. The volcano. Her. Every day a new day with my angel eyes. Not one that kept continuously turning—same shit, different day. That was my life up until the day I met her.
I sighed, pouring myself a cup of Amaro del Capo.
Night fell, a full moon rising, and I went to the window of the dining room.
Maybe he’d be out howling like the fucking dog he was.
The Scarpone family had wolf tattoos, which made me think back to that day in Modica. He had slipped his hand underneath his son’s shirt, keeping it hidden.
“Yeah,” I said, taking a sip of my drink. “That’s about right.”
I took a seat at the table, checking my watch. It was acceptable to be fashionably late, but this was getting fucking ridiculous.
Maybe he had decided not to come.
Maybe he decided this would be set on his terms, not mine.
Or maybe the fucker would ambush me in my sleep and not face me like a man.
I couldn’t see that about him. Not because he was too low to stoop to such a level, but because he wanted to see my face. He wanted to air out our grievances before one of us fatally wounded the other.
I wasn’t afraid of ghosts. They were already dead.
I cleared the table. Rolled up my sleeves and did the dishes. My grandmother had been spending more time with other family members lately, but still—her kitchen was always spotless. She detested any dirty dishes sitting in the sink overnight.
It was done out of respect for her. She didn’t get much of that over the years, in other ways, so I felt it was important to do it even if she couldn’t see it.
To be Machiavellian meant that one had to present him or herself to the world in one way, while behind closed doors, unscrupulous practices took place.
