Page 81 of Tide of Treason
“I saw Viola today,” I said conversationally, sliding the garlic into the pan, letting the oil sizzle and spit. “She sends her love.”
A noncommittal hum.
My vision caught the shine of the blade as it sliced, the shadow fat and clumsy on the cutting board. One blink and it warped. Pale skin becoming a throat, Nonno’s Adam’s apple, the hot arterial spray that had once painted the bedsheets, staining my wrists, my heart, everything. I wondered if the smell of garlic would ever overpower the memory of blood. Somehow, I doubted it.
Mamma felt the ghost pass. She swallowed withoutbreaking her chop, her silent apology lingering in the basil-scented air. A promise: to keep my hands clean, even if hers were forever stained.
Turning off the stove, I wiped my hands on a dish towel and turned, just in time to watch Nonna finish her ritual. The cane gleamed under the kitchen light as she ran a final, sharp stroke down its length. Overkill, sure, but theatrics kept her spry.
“FIGLIO DI PUTTANA!”Francesco roared, throwing his hands up.“Che cazzo fai, stronzo?! Passala, merda!”
“Too much product in his hair,” Elio muttered. “Can’t see the ball through the shine.”
Sophia had been taking notes. She sat cross-legged on the floor, munching on a blue M&M, attention half on the game and half on Mamma, who had moved on to slicing basil. I could already sense where this was going, so I pulled out my phone and navigated to my medical app, committing to something as mundane as a prenatal checkup.
“Minchia!”Sophia announced triumphantly.
There it was.
I went back to what I was doing. No horse in this race.
Tuesday at noon? I tapped the slot, then hesitated. No, Francesco had his stupid someone fucked me over meeting then, and if I skipped, he’d start getting nosy. I flicked higher, ignoring the way Sophia’s insults rose an octave.
“Stronzo!”
Friday morning? Maybe . . . but Friday was also the day I had to play referee between two capos who couldn’t decide ifthey were partners, enemies, or secretly fucking each other behind their wives’ backs. I didn’t care where they ended up, I just hated paperwork.
Sophia wobbled upright, nearly tripping over her sneakers, and lobbed a fresh curse at Mamma’s back.“Troia schifosa! Fica di merda!”The accent was all wrong—half Long Island, half Sopranos—but the venom? Purebred Sforza.
I stayed out of it.
Wednesday, 3 PM. Dr. Bernstein. Park Slope.
The idea of squeezing into a waiting room with a bunch of Brooklyn moms who thought organic oat milk was a personality trait didn’t thrill me, but Park Slope was far enough from our usual haunts that no one would think to look for me there.
Sugar laced with cyanide drifted from Mamma’s lips. “Francesco,dove ha imparato Sophia queste parole?” Where did Sophia learn those words?
“Dunno. Maybe from Kayla.”
I didn’t bother lifting my gaze. “Grow a spine, Franky.”
Sophia whispered it back, reverent. “Minchia.”
I tappedConfirm Appointment!and locked my phone. The air shifted then, a cold snap slicing through the room’s stale warmth, sharp as a razor dragged across a vein. Only two things ever dipped Papà’s voice into that low, syrup-smooth octave of calculated patience: a fat stack of cash on the horizon or a fuckup staggering through the door. The former was profitable. The latter was Lucius Andrade.
“Well,” Elio murmured, reaching for his beer. “Wouldyou look at that.”
Tilting my head, my gaze locked on the M&Ms that formed a loose circle on the coffee table. I wasn’t sure when I’d started separating them by color, but it gave my fingers something to do other than betray me. A small green one sat in the corner, isolated and lonely. My finger twitched, and I resisted the urge to press it into the middle.
My ears painted the picture in gory technicolor. Heavy footsteps, sharp-heeled and even-paced. The rustle of fabric as Papà unbuttoned his coat. The distant creak of leather gloves being pulled off one by one, a sound that was almost drowned out by the unmistakableclick-click-clickof Lucius flipping a Zippo open and closed.
He was ignoring me.
The reality was acid licking up my spine.
Fine. Watch me write myself into your line of sight.
Fifteen minutes passed, long enough for the idea to ripen into inevitability. With the surgical precision of a sniper (and none of the remorse), I “accidentally” knocked over my glass of Merlot. A tidal wave of red arced through the air and crashed, beautifully, onto the only part of Lucius Andrade that still pretended to be untouchable.
