He turned onto his back. Gave me a side-eyed glance before he stared up at the top bunk. Ink took up both of his arms and most of his body. Some images made sense, and some didn’t.
I kept my hands hidden for the time being. I made a show of making up my bed. I didn’t cover the pillow. Then I hopped on top, my legs dangling. I listened to the sounds of the prison. I watched the sky.
He didn’t say a word to me. I didn’t say a word to him.
He skipped dinner. So did I.
The sunset seemed to set the sky on fire, melting the day into charred darkness, as he started to pray the rosary.
“I’m not going to make this hard on you,” he said after he was done.
I said nothing. There was nothing to say. What was ordered would be finished. He shouldn’t have touched something that didn’t belong to him. A woman who belonged to the Faustifamiglia. They were an international criminal enterprise, but some of their rules were rooted in the old Sicilian Cosa Nostra ways.
A man didn’t touch another man’s woman, or it was punishable by death.
He’d gotten his trial and was sentenced. Death row.
It just so happened that he was arrested before the family could get to him. I was in town. Done deal.
He stood, his knees trembling. He shuffled his way toward the bars, took one in each hand, and held on. I slid off the bed. He probably didn’t even hear me, given the pounding of his heart. It seemed loud in the cell. In my ears. Wrapping the pillowcase around his throat, I pulled.
The smell of lavender wafted under my nose, like my conscious was reminding me that something softer existed in the world. Something full of love and forgiveness.
My wife.
My heart beat faster than his. His was draining.
My eyes snapped open. I was back in the casa, and Mia had moved in her sleep. Her hand was across my face, her wrist over my nose. A few seconds later, my eyes were closed, and I was dreaming again.
It was the same fucking dream, but then again, it wasn’t. I was back in the cell. The man had disappeared. The light was bright in my face. The sun burned my eyes, like I’d been in darkness too long. I couldn’t see clearly. But I smelled her again. I heard her.
She was crying, pleading. “Kill me. Kill me, Saverio. It hurts so bad. If you love me, you’ll kill me.”
It was ghostly, echoing around the cell, bouncing off the cold walls, even though the sun was hot. It made me feel feverish. My heart raced again. Sweat coated my body. I called out for her, rattling the bars, trying to bend them with my hands. I couldn’t. My muscles were weak. My blood too thick. She was too far.
“Mia!” I roared.
“Kill me. Kill me, Saverio. It hurts so bad. If you love me, you’ll kill me.”
“Mia!”
“Rio! Wake up!”
I felt like I was shocked into the present, my eyes springing open. My wife stared up at me with wide eyes. I was on top of her, keeping her pinned. Sweat ran from my temples. My heart felt like it was about to explode. The veins in my arms were swollen, taut against my skin. My breath felt shallow. Muscle function all there, though. The strength I lacked in the dream surged inside of me.
I forced myself off her. I was almost crushing her.If I hadn’t heard her— I stopped the fucking thought. I heard.
She was breathing heavily, rubbing her wrists.
“Want to talk about it?” she said after a few minutes.
When I looked over at her, she had a look in her eyes that all men crave to see. Glistening in the low light of her lamp, her eyes were focused on mine. They were filled with so much love and concern that all I could do was grab her, pulling her so close to my chest that she gasped.
She held me back, the tourniquet to all my wounds.
The night seemed to move slow, too hot to hurry, and after that, no more dreams. When I woke up again, she was on top of me, wafting a biscotti under my nose.
“Buongiorno, marito.”She leaned in to kiss me.
