Page 101 of The Mafia's Broken Vows

“There’s something else, Addy.” Kira traces the edge of the nearby stool and then puts her cocktail down. “Tommy Martelli is dead.”

“What?” I sit up straight. The lounge chair creaks under my sudden movement.

Kira’s hazel eyes are fixed somewhere over my left shoulder. “Why’re you surprised? I told you he was a dead man.”

A chill runs through me despite the warm sun on my skin. “Did . . . Dante kill him?”

He didn’t say anything to me. Not that I expect him to come home bearing a list of everyone he’s un-alived.

Thing is, I wouldn’t mind if he did.

“No, Dante didn’t have to lift a finger because Tommy died of natural causes. A heart attack. During sex, no less.” Kira’s voice is steady and matter-of-fact, but her face has an assessing look.

“Oh, come on Kira,” I scoff. “You expect me to believe he just keeled over and died?”

“No, I expect you to believe that he had an autopsy.” Kira’s face remains impassive, but there’s a slight quirk on her lips.

As the pieces click into place, I feel a strange mix of horror and dark fascination.

I tilt my head slightly, arching an eyebrow. “Autopsy huh? I’m sure they found he had clogged arteries and leaky valves. And he also smoked like a chimney. He also had traces of cocaine in his blood. I bet he’d just gotten high on coke and then fucked a twenty-year-old hooker. A classic case of a heart attack waiting to happen.”

“Yep. We can’t argue with a coroner’s report.” Kira’s face breaks into a beaming smile.

“Just like you can’t argue with my obituary,” I murmur.

The same way you can’t argue with gravestones and family photos.

“Exactly.” Kira nods solemnly. “My tribute to you was particularly moving, if I do say so myself.”

There’s a beat of silence before we start to laugh.

Maybe Dante is right. Maybe this is my world, and I just haven’t been living in it.

We’re still chuckling when the rhythmic splashing ceases as Sophie pulls herself out of the pool, water streaming off her athletic form.

Her black one-piece clings to her curves, emphasizing the swell of her baby bump. She pads across the cool tiles, leaving wet footprints in her wake, then reaches for a plush towel from a nearby rack and settles onto the edge of the lounge chair next to mine.

I shift on my lounge chair, the leather creaking softly as I prop myself up on my elbows. “Sixty laps, and you’re not even breathing hard,” I say, watching as she dries off.

She leans back, supporting her weight on her arms, and turns her face toward me with a smile. “Says the woman who goes on a five-mile walk every morning.”

I laugh, dropping back onto my chair and draping an arm over my eyes. “That’s just to keep my muscles from stiffening up. Doctor’s orders.”

After a few minutes, the barman approaches. “Signora Vitelli,” he says warmly, “your usual?”

Sophie sits up slightly, smiling at the bartender. “You know me too well, Diego. Yes, please.”

Diego nods and retreats to the bar. Sophie, Kira, and I chat idly, the conversation flowing easily between us until Diego returns, carrying a silver tray balanced expertly in one hand. He places it on the small table between our lounges with a flourish. It’s laden with an array of exotic fruits and a gleaming curved knife.

“Grazie, Diego,” Sophie says, reaching for the knife. It’s our daily routine now; her laps, followed by the platter of fruits while I pepper her with questions and get a little more spellbound by this life.

Sophie and Kira continue to chat, but I don’t hear them anymore. I’m too engrossed with what Sophie is doing with the knife. She spins the knife this way and that, then peels and slices a dragonfruit with an expertise that doesn’t strike me as natural. Normal people shouldn’t be able to handle knives like that. You should need to study under a guru for that kind of skill.

“Coming, Mama!” My friend rises from her chair, her smart cane unfolding with a soft click. She navigates around the chaise lounges, the cane tapping rhythmically against the floor. Kira always uses her cane as an extra precaution when she’s outside the house. She pauses by my side to squeeze my hand briefly, then does the same to Sophie’s shoulder before continuing toward the house.

As Kira’s footsteps fade, Sophie turns to face me fully, weighing a large mango in her palm. “Do you miss your old life, Addy?”

I answer without thinking, “Yes,” but then I have to ask myself what exactly my old life was. A job I tolerated, a family built on lies, and a constant feeling of not quite fitting in. I realize with a start that none of it was real.

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