Page 99 of Revenge on the Mafia

I’d counted in the plane, and it was forty-two days since I’d last seen her. In that time, it felt like she’d changed. Lost weight. Gone frail. Collected an accumulation of tubes that wrapped around her like a bizarre plastic shield. Machines beeped, and her heart rate plunged and spiked in colorful curves. Underneath it all, she slept, looking as peaceful as she had done when she was home in her precious little bed.

“Mamá.” A sob cracked through my chest. My back touched a chair, and I fell into it. I caressed her hand. Veins popping out, tubes going in and out. But her skin was soft. As soft as my mamá’s. Guilt gnawed at my chest. I should have been with her.

“There was nothing you could have done.” I must have spoken because the doctor was answering me. “She had a stroke in the middle of the night. Even if you had been in Spain, you wouldn’t have been by her side. And even then…” she trailed off. I wasn’t a medical professional to save her from a stroke, and I sure wasn’t God to stop it from happening.

My chest ached. I sought Nico out. I wanted him to stop me from breaking down. He reached for my hand, and I wondered what my life had become when the man I was supposed to kill was the one to soothe my pain. I didn’t have time to dwell on that thought. The door swung open behind us, and through the curtains, I caught a glimpse of Mara rushing in. I tucked my emotions in. Hid them away from sight. When she fell into my arms, I was the big sister again. Ready to be strong again. Except his gaze told me this time I didn’t have to do it alone.

Ten days passed. For all of them, I waited with bated breath. But she never woke up. I tried everything. Spoke to her. Cried next to her. Scolded her. Demanded she come back. When all else failed, I played her favorite piece on the piano, poured my heart into it, and wept my sorrow into it. Then I played her the recording of it. A tear spilled from the corner of her eye. I had thought that was the miracle. But nothing else changed. Except for the one time Nico and I were both in the room and he spoke. She must have heard us because one lonely tear fell from her eye then, too.

Life happened. I didn’t take part in it. We lived in a house that Nico had arranged. We ate the food that he had organized. In front of Mara, I was the strength she needed. I put on a weak smile and handled my sorrow in silence while I let her cry. But when she wasn’t there or at night, I fell apart in his arms. No one noticed it more than he did. While I lay on his chest and sobbed, I wondered who his person was that he could fall apart with, because somewhere between poisoned paella and fucking for a reward, he’d become mine.

One time, I asked him if he shouldn’t go back home. His jaw had locked, and I knew he was sealing words behind his lips. Words he refused to let out. Then he’d shaken his head and walked out, leaving me behind. I’d paced the house, dying a million times, wondering if he was already flying. Half an hour later, I’d seen him from the window. Sitting on the beach. Head dipped low. Shoulders slumped. Sticking out like a sore thumb in a black suit on the golden sand. Somehow, he was my compass. Without much thought, I turned up at his side. He’d looked up. I’d looked down. I forgot what I’d come for. I guess he did, too. I’d straddled him. On that lonely beach, I’d taken his aching erection and pushed it inside me. He hadn’t stopped me. Even if it was for a few minutes. Every kiss, every stroke he gave me felt like he’d like nothing more than to take this twisted sorrow away. But he couldn’t. No one could take this away. The only thing he could do was hold me as I shook in his arms. Crying as I came apart. Finding that bit of happiness with him.

Then he carried me inside and walked into the shower. Him in his suit. Me in a dress that Magda or Isidora must have packed for me. I couldn’t remember the color or the shape of it. All I knew was I’d never want to wear it again. But his hands working my wet dress off, the way he soaped me, shampooed my hair, dried me, and put me to bed. I was ashamed to say it, but I wanted that forever. Because he was all mine. He was better than any symphony I would ever play on the grandest stage.

But forever wasn’t meant for us.

Two hundred and forty-five hours after Mamá had her stroke, she passed away quietly in her sleep. No hello. No goodbye. I knew it because that was what he told me. The hours. I didn’t know what time or day it was. It was sunny outside. I knew that. While we mourned, the sun danced. I was by her side, and so was Mara. Nico stood behind me, the solid wall of support I hadn’t known I needed until I did.

Her funeral passed. A quick one because what was the point of it all? People who had abandoned us came to the funeral. Alfonso told me he couldn’t get hold of his son. I couldn’t bring myself to care. He gave Nico a glare. Called him an asshole. I told him to get the hell out. I only cared about the staff from the psychiatric residence. They’d taken care of her when I couldn’t. I thanked them. Words grating like parchment against a dry throat. Sonia told me Mamá had been lucky to have me. I didn’t have an answer for that. On the way out, she squeezed Nico’s shoulder. Of course they would know each other. When he turned back to me, his gaze didn’t meet mine. But even from a distance, they looked suspiciously wet. I’d forgotten in my grief. When I wasn’t there, he’d been there for her. He too had lost someone precious.

When our last parent was buried, when our entire foundation had collapsed, Mara and I went for a walk.

“What’s that?”

She’d stopped. I stopped too. “What?” My voice was still cracked.

“You’re humming.”

I was? I gave her a weak smile. It was strange that I could do that when we’d just buried Mamá. “It was a song Papá used to sing.”

She smiled too. I continued to hum; she locked her arms in mine, and we walked again. In the distance, Nico leaned against the car, following us no doubt with his gaze.

My feet sank into the sand. Leaving a trail behind of good times and bad. I looked up at the sun. It was a wonder that it never stopped.

“Remember when Yaya used to visit?”

I smiled. “She hated that we called her Yaya.”

Mara giggled. “She wanted us to call her Nonna.”

Instead, we had purposefully mixed them up. Calling our Italian grandmother Yaya and our Spanish grandmother Nonna.

“I think she secretly loved it.”

I shrugged. “We didn’t give her a choice.” A few steps later, I remembered my last call with Mamá. Pain stabbed my heart, and I stopped walking. Losing Papá still hurt in the most unexpected of times. I had another one to add to it now. “Mamá used to add wine to her paella recipe.”

“No?” Mara’s eyes went wide. “Was that why it always tasted divine?”

“Probably.”

“I’m going to miss that.”

“I’ll make it for you.”

She laughed. “It’s a long way to come for paella.”

My breath caught. I didn’t want to tell her there was a deadline for Nico and me. Five more days and I’d pack my bags and be back.