My hand starts to squeeze, crushing his windpipe underneath the vise-like grip. My heart pounds at my ears at the man’s confession. Deep down, I know that he’s saying whatever he wants to say to get a rise out of me.
But I also know that Thanasis Diamandis has no fucking morals, and there’s a very real chance that this bastard is telling me the truth.
His face turns purple, and he starts to struggle. Suddenly, I let him go. My hands are shaking from blood loss. The pain in my shoulder is starting to spread.
Stavros drags in long ragged breaths, and looks at me with a smirk. “What’s wrong, D’Ambrosio? Can’t finish your own party?”
“Your life isn’t in my hands, Stavros.”
He looks at me in confusion as I turn to glance at Lydia standing at the foot of the stairs with her arms at her side.
“It’s in hers.”
I rise back up, fighting the lightheadedness that’s swirling around my ears, and undo my tie to wrap it around my shoulder. The blood loss slows and I can think for a moment.
Slowly, I walk over to Lydia. Her face is still but her hands are balled into shaking fists. She doesn’t step back as I approach, and stands just a little taller.
I lift her chin with two bloodied fingers, and my thumb moves along her cheek, leaving a smear of myself on her skin.
"This man came to hurt you in every way that a man can hurt a woman." I look into her eyes. “So it is up to you to pass judgment on what is to be done with him. Say the word,piccola."
She looks at me while blood drains out of me with each slowing heartbeat. The yellow light continues to swing. Overhead, I can make out the distinct sound of sirens, and I have no idea if they’re ambulance or police. None of it matters, though. They all march to the beat of my drum in this part of Long Island.
And I march to the beat of my wife’s.
Her eyes break from mine, and rest for a moment on my bloody shoulder, then she looks at Stavros and the crown tattoo on his arm. A shapeless anger passes through her face, and I know her answer even before she nods.
“You have to say the words,piccola.”
For a moment, I think that she won’t. This isn’t something that she can ever walk back from. Once she says those words, she’ll have truly become one of us.
I’ve learned at the age of nine that the distinction between the one passing the order and the one that does the killing barely exists, especially when you can’t leave the room without the terrible deed being done.
But it’s one thing to kill without a choice, and another to kill in righteous vengeance.
“He dies.” Her voice is calm, even, and regal.
Savage satisfaction uncoils itself in my heart, and I plant a gentle kiss on her unblemished cheek before I walk back to Stavros.
The gun is heavy in my hand as I press the barrel against Stavros’ head. “I’ll send your hands back to your Don and let him know that this means war.”
I don’t bother waiting for his response before I pull the trigger.
18
LYDIA
Night
I drag the cloth down Nico’s spine again, wring it out over his good shoulder, and watch the pink thread away into the massive bath-tub that’s the size of a jacuzzi.
"This is going to scar," I say.
"Add it to the rest,piccola."
He leans back silently between my legs as I work, moving my hands along the familiar contours of muscles and ink before I brush against the ruin of his left shoulder where the bandage sits high and white.
The doctor came and went hours ago. What's left for me is the soft work of cleaning.
