Page 10 of Mafiosa
‘And no, I doubt Valentino would be thrilled at the idea of me making out with his brother. Especially after everything that happened with Nic.’
‘You know,’ said Millie who was now narrowing her eyes, ‘for someone with such a romantic name, he’s a real killjoy, isn’t he? He’s all,Ooh look at me, I’m sensitive and kind and I have a beautiful long name and pretty eyes,and thenBAM! Psyche! I’m going to shoot you.You know what I call that, Soph? I call that false advertising, and I’m pretty sure it’s illegal.’
Dom was sitting in the driver’s seat outside school, so I made sure to climb into the back of the SUV.
‘Do you really have to be so childish, Marino?’ he asked. ‘I’m not going to bite you.’
‘I just don’t want to get any of your hair gel on me. It’simpossibleto wash out.’
‘Trust me, this is not what I want to be doing with my afternoons either.’
‘I told you I can make my own way back.’
Dom snorted. ‘Until you prove your loyalty, Valentino is not going to let you swan around Chicago unwatched. For all we know you could be passing intel back to Bitch Marino and her crew of idiots.’
‘After she blew up my mother’s car and nearly killed me?’ I said. ‘Even you couldn’t possibly believe that.’
He shrugged, eyes forward. ‘I don’t know what to believe any more.’ Him and me both. ‘How’s your hot friend doing? Ihaven’t seen her in a while.’
‘That’s probably because she still hates you.’
He side-glanced at me, a smirk twisting on his lips. ‘Good. I like a challenge.’
I shifted forwards so that my fingers trailed the side of his headrest. I tapped them along the leather and studied the silver scar that swiped across his eye. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but if you and Millie were the last two people on Earth and the entire future of the human race depended on you two hooking up, she would not even graze you with her pinky finger because she is so deeply, deeply repulsed by your general existence, not to mention your complete selfish disregard for women in general. She would see the world shrivel up and die rather than populate it with any tiny versions of you and your general shittiness.’
He turned his attention to the road. ‘How could I possibly not take that offensively?’
I shrugged.
He matched my nonchalance. ‘That doesn’t offend me as much as you might think it does, Marino.’
I flopped backwards, as the trees in Cedar Hill blurred by me in streaks of autumnal oranges and browns. My thoughts drifted to my old neighbourhood, to my mother’s things still locked up in my house. It all felt so unfinished. ‘Well, that’s because you’re an asshole.’
‘And when you’re pointing a smoking gun at some guy’s corpse and screwing over every last bit of your Marino loyalty, what will that make you?’
With my gaze still on my old town and the graveyard it had become, I said, ‘I suppose that will make me a Falcone.’
CHAPTER FIVEVILLAIN
I was so not feeling the poetry assignment. The last thing I wanted was to trace someone else’s words about grief and pain while my own loss, raw and searing, sat so heavy in my chest. Still, it was a distraction, not to mention a necessary component of graduating, so I was doing my best with it. I had been scanning a giant book of poems for nearly an hour before I found one about self-deception. I transcribed it, verse-for-verse, then wrote my own response.
I used to wear masks so subtle I barely noticed them. A compliment to my mother after a dismal meal, a smile at my best friend when she sang out of tune, a forced laugh at my uncle’s bad jokes. I wore small masks that came and went, like fleeting expressions.
I am stuck inside the mask I wear now. I want to rip it off. I want to show my scars to the world, to unveil the ugliness that breathes inside me. I want to be unashamed. I want to be unafraid. But every day the mask gets tighter, and I suffocate a little more.
I stopped writing. This was definitely too much. Simmons would keel over if I kept going. I scratched it out and flipped the book of poems open again.
‘Very industrious, Persephone. On a Friday night, too. And here I thought you only cared about leading Nicolò on.’ He chuckled at his quip. ‘Your brain, it seems, is capable of some diversion.’
I put the pen down and sat back in my chair. ‘This isn’t a documentary, Felice. Can you not narrate me?’
I could feel him coming closer, the sickly scent of honey filling up the study. His shadow fell across the desk, the edges crisp and blackened under the table lamp. He made to lean over me, and instinctively I covered my notebook with my elbow.
‘Can you think of nothing else to do than bother me while I’m trying to write this stupid essay?’
He rounded the desk. He was wearing a new suit – dark purple, with a crimson necktie. He arranged himself, with arms folded, against the wall. His smile was indulgent. You’ve had a tough week, so I won’t take that to heart, little Persephone.’
‘I wasn’t aware you had a heart.’
