Page 8 of Revenge on the Mafia

I crept closer to her and wrapped my arm around her shoulders. She didn’t shift her focus from the leaf.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“They’ll know.” Her voice trembled.

“Who, Mamá?”

She didn’t answer me, looking away toward the gate at the end of the driveway, like she expected an army to stride through any minute. “Be quiet,” she snapped, waving her hand and shushing someone I couldn’t see. She was lost to me again. She muttered to herself. I sat quietly next to her. Understanding nothing and everything. Her tone rose in annoyance and volume. “He says you know who they are.”

“Who?”

“Men in black suits.” It suddenly made sense.

She fell silent. I struggled with my thoughts. She had spoken of them before. Maybe it wasn’t all in her mind?

We’d never known why Papá was killed or by whom. I couldn’t remember much to describe to the police. Even if I had, they wouldn’t have taken us seriously. Mamá talking to a non-existent person didn’t help. Neither did my refusal to look beyond that day. Every time I tried, I sank deeper into the darkness, and after some time, I stopped trying.

But suddenly ideas formed in my head, as tangible as stone. The man in that hotel room was there on that disastrous day. Perturbation gathered in the pit of my stomach. He had called my papá a thief.

Mamá threw the gentleman playing petanca a suspicious look before she leaned closer and whispered, “I always told Juan. That man wasn’t to be trusted.” I glanced at the man who was focused on measuring the shortest distance. “A man wearing jewelry should never be trusted.”

Jewelry. She wasn’t talking about him. The questions bubbled on the tip of my tongue. I had to ask her. Was Papá a thief? The idea itself made bile climb up my throat. I couldn’t ask her that and taint her memory of him. Was he connected to the Mafia? I stewed with that thought. There was no one else I could ask. “Mamá, do you remember what kind of men Papá worked with?”

“They took him,” she burst out as she clutched my hand. Her eyes filled with tears. “They took him away from us. The way he was. All that blood…” She was remembering again. Her breathing heaved, and underneath the pressure of her hand, my bones ached.

I wanted her to remember something more. Even if I couldn’t bring myself to remember. But her mind had already shifted.

“Where’s Mara?” Worry filled her face as she looked behind me and then asked in the same breath, “Is she with Juan?” Just like that, she blocked out the past when it tried to swallow her into dark memories. Who was I to tell her otherwise when I did the same? Over and over again. Sometimes it scared me how similar we were.

“She’s at home, Mamá.”

“Good.” She nodded. “You need to trim those bougainvilleas.”

CHAPTER THREE

ANNA

Iliked to think that it just happened. Like it was fate or retribution for an innocent life. For a wife left behind without the love of her life. For two daughters who’d lost their safety net, the best father in the world.

But it didn’t just fall into my lap. I made it happen.

I’d lain restless for two nights. Drifting in and out of sleep. Fading between nightmares and a reality that was worse. I cleaned the rooms, visited Mamá, helped Mara with her homework, cooked, and fell into bed, exhausted, but didn’t sleep.

“You’re a fucking thief.”

My papá was good. He was the best. He wasn’t a thief. I’d bury that recollection in the quicksand that took the rest of my memories.

“It’s a fucking order. Now!”

Nothing had changed except everything had. Instead of waking up to the dark hollowness that weighed on me every morning, there was a sudden purpose. A task. Something that brought a twitch to my heartbeat. It was odd, but felt like hope. Like a last chance or a new miracle treatment.

Boris Martello.

That was his name. I’d found that out in the meantime. Just like I’d found out anything else I could about the man. He had been a frequent guest for years. Back in Marbella again after a long break. I supposed killing a man in cold blood made even a Don take a break. But what did I know? All I knew was that my search history had become a lot more suspicious the day I saw him. I’d also stopped by the market on the way to work and bought a bottle of natural pineapple extract.

I slipped my hand into my pocket. Just running my fingers over the tiny glass bottle with the yellow plastic lid made me feel alive. The adrenaline rush did something to me that no pill had ever been able to. Even the hum of music in the elevator didn’t bother me anymore.

The room service girl I’d followed into the elevator stood in the middle. The Tinto de Verano on her tray was missing the taste of pineapple. If the allergy were severe, even a small drop would be lethal. But how could I get it into his drink? I’d tried to get hold of it before she got the tray but failed miserably. Too many people. Too many checks. A cold sheen of sweat beaded on my forehead. I wiped it away. Focus.