The car became quiet. The air was warm, the strong smell of metal and sweat dominating all other scents. Rocco took his shirt off, pressing it to Uncle Tito’s leg, a piece of my dress around his shoulder. The old doctor moaned a little and then mumbled something about bleeding more because of too much drink. Then silence.
“Someone say something!” I screamed. “Talk to me. All of you.”
“I’m not going to die,” Brando said, sounding somewhat out of his mind. Drugged, almost. “The bible states that you’ll have to marry one of my brothers. To hell with that.”
“Though I do indulge from time to time, Rosaria would not appreciate me calling another woman wife.”
“It would have to be Dario or Romeo,” Uncle Tito muttered. “Pick Dario. Romeo still has too much play in him.”
Brando growled. His eyes were closed to the pain.
“I am MARRIED! And I will be! I will have three brothers and a favorite uncle. Promise me. All of you give me your word right now.”
Rocco and Uncle Tito murmured their promises from the backseat.
Brando tightened his hold on my leg. “I only answer to you.” A lazy grin came to his face. “What happens when I get to heaven? Who’s going to boss me around then?”
The three men laughed, the sound raspy and weak. Uncle Tito started to hum the tune of “Sway,” and I gathered it was because the car was doing just that, swaying back and forth, dipping and rising with the hills of Tuscany.
Giving Brando a quick stink eye, I did a double take. “Brando…how many times were you shot?”
He looked down. “Twice in the same shoulder.”
“Twice!”
“One…two…it doesn’t matter. It feels the same.”
“Tell me,” I said, my eyes fierce on the road. “Where each of you were shot and how many times.”
Rocco took one in the shoulder. Uncle Tito once in an unfortunate area of the leg.
I glanced in the rearview mirror. A car rushed up behind Dario and Romeo, speeding past them on the wrong side of the two-lane road. “Oh shit.” I pressed my foot harder on the gas.
Brando’s eyes snapped open, Rocco sat forward, and Uncle Tito covered his head when the “ping pang” of bullets started to ricochet off the car.
Rocco turned to look out of the back window and the breath hissed out of his mouth. He put a hand to his wound. “They must have been waiting for us. Trying to cut us off before we arrived at theospedale. He will not get much further than that. He will disappear afterward. Too many are out for him.”
“War on his ownfamiglia!” Uncle Tito said, trying for vigor but failing. “What has the world come to?”
“Scarlett,” Brando said gently. “You can do this.”
“This is Tuscany!” I said, frantic, like they should be ashamed to defile the ancient city by acting like hoodlums.
The car was catching up, and bullets still pinged against metal with sparks. I hit the gas even harder, almost touching the floor, and the Maserati shot forward with the order.
Hell if I’d let Ettore and his men cut us off.
“Scarlett,” Brando warned. His hand came forward to touch the dash. I could feel his eyes roving between the windshield and me. “There’s a turn, baby. Scarlett!”
The turn that Maggie Beautiful had taken with Signore Butta’s car grew near, but instead of slightly turning before it arrived full on, I kept straight, like I was going to fly through the trees and the expanse of dark valleys beyond.
Been there, done that.
Uncle Tito started to pray the rosary in Italian.
At the last second, I turned the car, and the one behind continued the forward track, not able to stop, flying into the dark abyss, barely missing the cypress.
“Grazie Dio!Grazie Dio!” Uncle Tito said, making the sign of the cross.
