Prologue
Make Them All Pay
Salvatore
May 1992 (age 11)
The scent of parmigiana hits my stomach in a punch. I snap awake, my eyes darting across the empty room crawling with shadows. I lost track of how long I’ve been in this dust-covered bedroom, but if she’s here, nothing else matters.
“Mamma?”
I will myself off the bare mattress onto the floor in a sprint.
The smell of olive oil and passata fill my lungs, propelling my feet down a short corridor with empty walls and peeled floors. It’s not Sunday, and we’re not at home, but maybe I’d imagined the last two days. Maybe the nightmare I’ve been in is just a dream.
“Mamma!”
My smile dies at Ziu in front of the stove.
“I was coming to wake you,” he says quietly over his shoulder. His brown eyes are the same as Mamma’s. They’re sad like mine but missing tears. “The food is ready.” He motions toward the eggplant parmesan bubbling in a baking dish under the stovetop light. It’s not the blue-and-white stoneware with a chip in the corner that Mamma uses.
A sharp pain twists around my neck and wedges itself between my ribs.
They’re gone.
“Niputi,” Ziu calls out.
Three men in black suits sit around the kitchen table. They hide their expressions well, but not the guns scattered across the wooden surface. Papà hated weapons, said they hurt good people. He would be so mad at Ziu Giulianu if he were here.
Except he’s not.
My lip trembles.
“Salvatore,fai ’n respiru prufunnu,“ my uncle says. The Sicilian command to take a breath is stern, but he’s not mad. He tells the men to take the guns and leave. “Here.” He sets a plate of parmigiana on the table with a glass of water. “Eat.”
I haven’t touched food since the funeral. I lost the desire to eat after the two people I loved most went to their graves. A few people from the market in Palermo came down with panelle sandwiches. I had a few bites, but I couldn’t keep down my father’s favorite lunch whenever he was in a rush.
“Where will I live?” I wipe the tears from my cheeks. Everyone cried today, but not Ziu.
“With your nonna,” he answers from the sink. Brown leather crosses over his back to keep his guns secure. There’s a pouch under his armpit I’m certain holds his knives. “It’s safer in Scicli.”
I was at Nonna’s home when it happened. They were on their way to take me back to Palermo.
My grip tightens around my fork.
Nonna shouted through Mass and cried until she couldn’t speak. She’d lost my zia and now her son. Ziu’s men drove her home to rest. I want to be strong for her, but I don’t know how.
I push the food around my plate. “Will they kill me too?”
Ziu stills. His eyes narrow. “No, niputi.”
The news says my parents died in a car accident, but that’s a lie. I heard Ziu tell his men that a bomb blew up on the motorway. It killed a judge and took Mamma and Papà from me.
“The bad people wanted Papà to pay, or he would be sorry. They hurt him and took Mamma.” I suck in a breath.
Papà was a fisherman. His father taught him, and he’d taught me. The bad people bullied him for money to keep our shop safe. We didn’t have much, but he saved to own a shipping company and one day become a fishing distributor. Mamma wanted to expand our shop into a restaurant. They bothered no one but refused to pay.
Now they’re dead.
