Page 35 of Revenge on the Mafia

Yet here I was. Nearly three weeks had passed. He was still breathing. Papá’s death was still unavenged. The duration of my visa was still running out. Along with my patience and reputation. The only thing stocking up were my questions.

And my clumsiness. After drying the water from the outside of the cup, I carried it to my room. He’d known my intentions probably from the moment I’d applied for the job. I had thought I didn’t want to know the why and when of it anymore. But it was killing me not to know. Instead of all the possible things he could have done with that information, he’d decided to taunt me. Push me, train me even? It was almost as if he wanted to be killed. Presuming the Mafia dealt with guns like candy, it meant only one thing. He wanted to be killed by me.

Why though?

My head thumped with that question. Kept me awake at night, loomed in my nightmares, and haunted me in daylight.

He was pushing me toward something. What did Niccolò Martello want from me?

He was a paradox. I had a better chance of coming up with information about dark matter than the inner thoughts of that man. He kept them so well hidden behind the cold shutters of his eyes. Except for that one time in his office, when he’d almost seemed annoyed with his reaction.

Calling me a fucking asshole is only going to get me harder, Anna.

Those words still vibrated in my skin. They crept up on me in the darkness. Made my toes curl. The fact that he’d had no control over his words made it even more appealing. It was ridiculous.

It was only because I needed to get laid, as Isidora had so politely pointed out. I’d not had sex for so long that I probably wouldn’t know how it worked anymore. I should have joined her. Instead of lying in my bed, hearing his rough voice, and feeling it slide over my skin. I was clearly losing my shit.

Each encounter with him made me lose a few IQ points. He taunted me and riled me up as if that alone were his purpose. Thankfully, except for the two times in his office, he didn’t hang around for long. It was almost as if he was afraid of staying too long. As if he counted the seconds before he could get out of my sight. Why then did he seek me out? None of it made any sense anymore. I knew only one thing. He rattled my nerves and brought me back to the girl I had been. Eleven years ago.

Walking into my room, I set the teacup on my nightstand.

I missed that girl. She didn’t know much of anything. Grief, abandonment and responsibilities had changed all of that. I’d thought I’d never be her again. But sometimes he made me so enraged that I barreled toward her. Irresponsible, without caring for the consequences.

Lying down in my bed, I stared at the raftered ceiling. Because the house felt so familiar, I constantly felt as if I was home. The style, the colors, the star. If I closed my eyes, I could almost hear the ocean, and perhaps, if I allowed it, Papá’s voice. But that was a step too far. Just like it was to go near the grand piano in the living room. It wasn’t the same as Papá’s. Of course, it wasn’t. But it felt too intimate. Almost as if I’d find the AV I’d carved into all my favorite things when I was ten and had a tantrum when I’d been told I was having a sister.

Time ticked away as I gave myself a pep talk. I’d be able to sleep again once I dealt with him. Not toss and turn until it was… I peeped at my phone… three a.m. I stared at the wall, the ceiling, and into the darkness outside the window. I sat up with a frustrated groan. El gilipollas. He’d taken sleep away from me.

It was at least nine a.m. in Marbella. Giving up on sleep, I picked up the phone and called Mamá. Just the sound of the ringing across the ocean on the other end was enough to make guilt thaw in my heart. I should have been with her. I should have finished this a long time ago. Mara visited her once a week, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t me.

“I was just talking about you.” Mamá never bothered with hola.

“Hola, Mamá.”

“I was telling about your music.”

She didn’t take the subtle hint. She never did. I smiled to myself at the familiarity of it. Knowing someone well enough to know their habits. I missed knowing Papá’s. “Are you telling my life story to one of the nurses?”

“Nurses?” She giggled, and it was so girlish and young it surprised me.

“Yes. You said you were talking about me.”

“No, no.” I imagined her waving her hands around in denial. “When he’s around, they aren’t allowed to come. He takes care of me, you know.”

I sighed. “Is your Italian friend there again?”

“We’re going to have breakfast together.”

The first time she’d spoken of an Italian man visiting her, I’d been hiding with her and Mara. I’d thought the Don had survived. That he’d sent someone to warn me by talking to Mamá. Some kind of indirect Mafia message. I didn’t have to be a genius to know that an Italian man telling her to be careful sounded like a full-blown threat. But she’d kept talking about him, even months later, when the danger had passed. Then I wondered if it was one of my cousins from my mother’s side. When I’d asked Sonia, she told me to let Mamá have her happiness in her own way. “Those visits bring her a lot of joy,” she had said. And she was right. With that, ultimately, I was forced to face the truth. A man who visited her only when her children were not present and didn’t want his name mentioned. Worse, the nurses never mentioned anyone else visiting. It meant only one thing. Even though sometimes I still tried to believe she wasn’t losing it altogether.

“Is one of my cousins visiting you?” I played along with her.

She scoffed. “Your cousins aren’t this good-looking.” Then she spoke to her invisible friend. “She thinks you’re one of her cousins.”

Only silence hummed on the other end. Then she spoke again. “I agree. I think you two will be perfect together.”

“Why don’t I video call you, Mamá? You can introduce me to your friend?”

“No. No. No need.” Her voice went flat. “He’s here to see me now.”