“You have committed crimes against my heart and the heart of my cousin,” Mariano spoke in Italian.
I translated.
“You speak of consequences. You will know what it means to face a judge and jury from a court you have never heard of. We follow our laws, and you will suffer the consequences of breaking our rules—crimes against our women are not merely business but personal. You will die a thousand deaths.”
When I spoke the last word, Atta made a strangled noise from behind me.
The brother with the phone had set it down. He was not interested in the translation any longer. He was staring at Rattler, fear in his eyes.
Mariano’s speech through my voice had unnerved him.
“It’s like he’s a ghost and she’s speaking for him,” one of the brothers said, not even bothering to whisper.
Rattler did not look so sure either. He was sweating in the cold, lines of ash or dirt streaking down his face.
Mariano’s hand jingled. “My heart warned you,” he continued. “She warned you that you would die for your crimes. I am her hunter. I hunt for her alone. Kill in her honor.”
My head whipped in my husband’s direction, and my eyes were hard on his face.
How did he know?How did he know I had threatened Rattler and his brothers that night? It was an empty threat then. It did not feel empty in that moment.
My husband’s eyes barely came to mine, but I understood immediately. He knew me. Knew me down to my soul.
If I did not translate for him, he knew I did not say such a thing that night, or it would make him a liar. A high offense in his world.
He trusted me enough to do this or not, his honor at stake.
I repeated his words as I looked at my husband, not Rattler.
Mariano nodded. “You should have heeded her warning.”
I translated.
As fast as a snake strike, Mariano let go of my hand, reached down into his boot, snatched the knife he kept strapped to his ankle, and slit the side of Rattler’s face open. From corner of mouth to upper cheek. He did the same to the brother who said he did not trust me to translate.
“Ahhh!” The brother was screaming, holding the flaps of his face.
Rattler seemed to be in shock. He teetered on his feet, holding a hand to the gaping wound, his eyes as round as saucers. It was as if he could not believe someone had the nerve to strike him first.
“You disrespect mine.” Mariano pulled his bottom lip in, running his teeth over it. Then he rolled his shoulders. “You disrespectme.”
Ah, when Rattler called me a dead bitch, and the brother said he did not trust me to tell the truth. For Atta as well. When Rattler was about to point her out for something she did not do. He had done. He had done it all.
I gasped when Mariano hauled me up in his arms, stepping in their blood on the way to the waiting SUV. “Your boots were made to step in shit. I’ll fucking die before you step in their blood. That’s how fucking worthless it is to me.”
He gently set me down in the shotgun seat of the SUV. Once in the driver’s seat, Mariano turned on the music of the car, nodding to it, urging me to find a song I liked. He pressed down on the gas, and the SUV smoothly took off into the night. He held my hand as he usually did. He kissed it and breathed me in over my wrist, where my pulse throbbed.
It was as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, except I knew.
His thumb tapped against the steering wheel; my hand jingled in his every so often.
The night was not over.
The scariest idea of all?
This situation was mild compared to the one we faced in Italy.
Chapter 29
