The sun is too bright, it’s too warm already, and my dream haunts me continuously. I go back inside and come back with sunglasses and a glass of whiskey.
Salvatore and Rosario both look with drawn-up eyebrows at me.
“Someone had a rough night,” says Salvatore.
“Don’t talk,” I say, gulp down the whiskey, shudder, wash it down with a cup of coffee and then take the three apples from the fruitbowl and throw them over the hedge framing the terrace.
“What did the apples do to you?” asks Salvatore.
“Shut up,” I say and walk back inside and bring the entire bottle of whiskey with me.
I have officially become a day drinker. But I don’t care. Because I am a criminal now. One with an empire of drugs and money and all the illegal shit to run. A criminal who killed and lay awake the entire night lusting for a woman more than twice her age, who wants to kill her, while her mind is running through the torture she put her through, while being physically stuck on an island with all the conservative catholics who think being gay is a sin.
Day drinking is the reasonable choice.
Half an hour and the entire bottle later, I have arrhythmia and slightly slurred speech.
“Youeew knnoow,” I say and get up, swaying slightly. “I amm going to shoooottt those aaappples in piecesss.” And with that, I pull out the gun I have with me at all times. One of them.
“Okay, that’s enough,” says Salvatore, grabs the gun in my hand and takes the glass from me. “Whatever it is, go sleep it off.”
“Givvvee me my gunn,” I say.
“We don’t handle guns when drunk,” he says.
“Weeee do,” I say, bending down and pulling a small spare gun from my leg band. I come up, sway just a little bit and point it at him.
“Ooookay,” he says, his hand outstretched. “Calm down, okay?”
“I’mmm nnot ssshooting youuu,” I say and gesture wildly with the gun in my hand. “Applessss. Theseee applesss need to beee destoryeddd.”
I lean over the hedge to see where they have fallen, and then I fall.
I scream, I land. Not too hard. On some really green grass. It’s so soft.
I look at the blue sky.
The sun is burning my skin.
I stare up.
I am Antonella Amato. Capo. Criminal. Killer,I recite in my head. Images from before vanish. I am finally at peace.
Two heads in my view, interrupting my thought.
“Thattt is veery green grassss,” I tell them before I close my eyes. It’s warm. It’s soft. And I am tired.
When I wake, I stare at the ceiling in my bedroom again. I sit up. My head is throbbing horribly.
“Here,” says Salvatore, holding a glass of water and a pill in front of my face, “Put it in your mouth and swallow.”
I snort, but do as he says.
“Are you going to tell me what made you become a drinker?” he asks as he sits down on the bed next to me.
I rub my eyes.
“The sun,” I say. “Everything is so bright and warm here. I am used to London. It’s grey and dull and has normal temperatures, and there is rain.”
