Mafiosa (Blood for Blood #3)(9)

‘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 FIVE


VILLAIN




Iwas 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 my attention finally snagged on one. It was practically flashing at me on the page. Plus it rhymed, which meant it was a proper poem. It was called ‘We Wear the Mask’, by Paul Laurence Dunbar. I transcribed the first stanza and then started jotting down my reaction to it.

We wear the mask that grins and lies,

It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—

This debt we pay to human guile;

With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,

And mouth with myriad subtleties.

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. Another poem. Less raw. Less real.

Another mask.

‘Very industrious, Persephone. On a Friday night, too. And here I thought you only cared about leading Nicoli 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.’

‘I don’t,’ he said, his light eyebrows drawing low over his eyes. He was a skeleton barely fleshed out before me. In certain lighting, I could see the edges of his skull beneath his receding hairline.

‘You are literally a villain.’

‘I used to have a heart.’ He didn’t betray a flicker of composure at my observation. ‘When I was young and foolish and thought the world was a bright, forgiving place. But I’ve learnt my lessons, Persephone, just as you will.’

There was something in his voice just then that made me quell the insult resting on my lips. I could see it in the careful placement of his smile, the twitch in his right eye. Grief. Grief for the wife who had walked out on him at eight months pregnant and had taken his foolish heart with him. Grief for Evelina, the woman he had built a palace for.

Only Evelina hadn’t left him, like he thought. She had been taken from him. He mourned the absence of a woman who was never coming back. A woman my father murdered. Bile rose in my throat at the image of that ruby ring inside the diner safe, of Jack’s words to me. The truth of my father’s depravity had been wrestling with the pain of my mother’s demise, and I wasn’t ready to unleash either. I certainly wasn’t about to tell Felice what really happened to his wife. I would take that to the grave with me. I hoped Luca would too.

I shut my notebook. ‘I assume you’ve come in here for a reason?’

‘Nothing escapes you, does it?’ he said mockingly. ‘If you must know, I was wondering about the measure of your intent.’

‘My intent?’

His eyes darkened. His teeth seemed to grow sharper. ‘Do you still wish to experience the feeling of retribution? Do you still thirst for it as you did the day you showed up on our doorstep seeking sanctuary?’

His intensity was more than unnerving. There was no humour or mocking left now. ‘Where has all this come from?’

‘This week,’ he said.

‘The week Donata stuffed my mother’s car with dead rats and blew it up in front of me, you find yourself wondering whether I still hate her as much as I did? Whether I still want to make her pay for everything she has taken from me? I thought you were supposed to be smart.’

Felice hitched up a brow. ‘I would say the same of you, but I’ve always been under the impression that you’re somewhat obtuse.’

I rolled my eyes at him.

He came closer – his breath pushing that cloying smell into the air between us. ‘It is my opinion that you give Gianluca too much credence in the matter of your mother’s avengement. His words, if you let them, will weaken you, and you will remain as you always have been …’ he paused, and then elongated the word, as though he could taste it in his mouth and it was almost too delicious to let go, ‘powerless.’