We stared at each other for minutes, until he nodded once again, squeezed me against him even tighter, and then said, “Time to go, Ballerina Girl.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The trip was a little over an hour, and we were moving away from the coast, heading toward the mountain town of Corleone. We traveled as an entourage—two to a car, not to overwhelm Giovi and his men, and to show an element of good faith, but not to be left without aide. Each man had a man. Brando had me.
“If we make it out of here alive,” I said to Brando, peering out of the window to the see the white sign that proudly displayed the name of the town, “I’m going to take a picture with that sign.”
He shot me a mean look through his Ray-Ban’s. I knew this because of the position of his eyebrows and the severe line of his lips.
I sighed. “I’m nervous. And I don’t know…it seems fitting. A souvenir of our time here.”
Brando’s hand came over mine. “Your hand’s like ice,” he said, bringing it to his mouth and blowing warm air over my skin. “You stayed up late reading last night.”
“You knew that I was up reading? I thought you were asleep.”
He sent me another look from the side of his glasses. His internal radar must’ve alerted him that I was awake.
I felt warm inside for the first time that day. “Violet put together a few things about your family for me—well, things about that life. Things she thought I should know.”
“Such as?”
“Uncle Tito! They call him Tito ‘The Saw’ Sala!”
Imagine my surprise when all those times Aunt Lola had thrown hints here and there that our cultured and sweet Tito was more than he seemed to be. It was the truth. They called himThe Sawbecause he had one of those barbaric medical saws used for amputation back in the eighteenth century, before anesthesia was discovered. He was inclined to use it in the same fashion it had been applied back then—without the assistance of modern medicine—if someone attempted to come at the family the wrong way. He never started it—he took an oath to do no harm—but he’d certainly finish it.
“And your father,” I went on. “He’s—he’s—”
I couldn’t even get out whathewas. Lion seemed like a compliment. But he had been incarcerated for so long, and with Marzio dead, a small amount of men had started to feel safer. With Lothario running the family, the enemy figured the time was right to start testing the waters, rocking the seemingly impenetrable Fausti boat. Lothario was not a born leader like Marzio, or as ruthless as Luca or Ettore.
Feeling safe was all an illusion, though.
“Are you afraid of him now, Ballerina Girl?” I could see that Brando was sincerely hoping that whatever I had read put me off enough to squelch the morbid curiosity I had with his father.
I had seen pictures of the man from childhood up until his incarceration displayed along the walls of the estate in Bagheria. The entire family, even as children, looked like they belonged in a luxury Italian clothing advertisement. Even before the documents Violet had sent with me, I had heard a few stories, enough to make a normal human being shy away from the man. His name alone sent people cowering in a corner, but not me. I grew more curious with the information.
“No,” I said, seeing no reason to lie. “He seems abstract to me, something to put together, though the image keeps shifting.”
Brando’s hand tightened around the wheel, almost to the point where his tan skin started to turn white. “Change the subject,” he said.
“Do you think—if Luca was here, would we be in this mess?”
“That’s not changing the subject, Scarlett.”
“Kind of.”
He sighed. It came straight from the weight pressing against his chest. “No. But it would come at a price. Now change the subject—nothing with his name.”
“All right.” I looked outside of the window, tapping my fingers against the doorframe. I sighed. Once. Twice. Three times.
“Say it.”
I almost smiled but didn’t. The thought of a gang out for his blood didn’t disturb him, but his father’s name did. “How high of a price?”
“I’d be in even deeper than I am now.”
“I see.” I swallowed the unease down hard, and then kissed his hand softly.
We became silent, the car barely shimmying as we took the roads into the village. Corleone from this view was all rolling green hills with colorful villas stacked in its crevices.
