Salvatore Dalla

Once home, I headed straight to my room. I was hungry, but I needed a shower to wash off the stench of rotten blood that still clung to my body. Even after showering, I felt dirty and foul; the Russian blood smelled worse than the others, I was certain of it.
Naná confirmed that she had arranged everything I asked for Amapola, who was in the room organizing the suitcase for our departure. I grabbed an apple before leaving the kitchen. I was famished; it was already two in the afternoon, but I decided to wait for lunch on the private jet.
Strangely, I was anxious to get to Palermo.
Before knocking on Amapola’s door, I questioned whether bringing her with me was the right decision. I felt I needed to distance myself to think about my next steps and choices. Having her around might not help much, but I still decided to take her with me.
I almost regretted it immediately as soon as I laid eyes on her. I was bombarded with questions and doubts about my decisions. I remembered why I had chosen to keep my distance from women; mamma did the same to poor papà. He had to give her a thousand explanations about everything; there were no secrets at home. She knew everything he did, but outside, she acted like the perfect submissive mafia wife. She was fantastic, but we all knew who really held the power when she was upset.
It scared me to see so much of her in Amapola, especially since I had always idealized that when I married, I wanted a relationship like my parents had—a woman I could trust with my life, who would be there for me when I needed her. But how could I find someone like that if, in the dark, even my own shadow wouldn’t stay by my side?
I thought mammá and papà were an atypical case and didn’t believe I could have the same luck. In fact, I didn’t believe in luck at all. I was a good player, I knew the rules of the game I ran, and that’s why I always succeeded. It had never been luck; it was always hard work and dedication.
I told her to be quiet and thanked her for following the instructions for the first time in her life as we drove to the hangar where my jet awaited us.
“Are we leaving Rome? Italy?” she questioned as soon as she realized where we were. If it weren’t for all my training, I would have rolled my eyes in irritation, but I simply got out of the vehicle and buttoned my coat when I felt the cold wind hit my face.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Amapola do the same with the piece covering her and mentally thanked Angela. She followed me, and as soon as we climbed the stairs, Amapola froze.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, trying to understand.
“I’ve never been on a plane,” she said, spinning on her heels and looking at me, and I saw fear snake in her eyes.
“Are you scared, Amapola?” I asked with a smile, playfully on my lips.
“Is this one of your tortures?” she questioned, her voice trembling, and I felt a bit guilty for the tone I used in my question.
“No, Amapola. I have other ways of torturing; a trip on a private jet definitely doesn’t fall into that category.” I emphasized that it was a jet, not just a plane, so she understood the difference.
“And if it crashes?” she asked, frightened.
“It won’t, Amapola. I promise it won’t crash. Come on, let’s go in.” I placed both hands on her waist and spun her around to continue toward one of the seats.
I set her down next to the spot I always sat in when I traveled and watched as our bags were placed in the room at the back. My personal bags never went in the cargo hold; I needed access to anything at a moment’s notice, and besides, that space was almost always filled with weapons.
Amadeu and Matteu sat two seats behind us, and I saw the door close. I glanced at Amapola’s hands, which trembled visibly. Does she really have a fear of flying? I hoped she could get used to it quickly since I traveled often. What the hell did I just think? How am I planning to take her on my trips?
“Amapola?” I called her attention.
“Yes,” she replied, her voice as shaky as her hands.
“The flight won’t be long,” I said softly, looking into her eyes so she could see the truth and calm down. “In about an hour and twenty minutes, maybe a little more, we’ll arrive. We’re going to Palermo.” I decided to mention the destination to reassure her.
“Palermo? It’s far; it’ll take hours to get there.”
“Not by jet. We’re not going by car, piccola,” I explained, and she nodded. I touched my hands to hers and noticed how sweaty they were. “Can I fasten the seatbelt on you?”
“Yes,” she agreed, so I pulled the leather straps and tied them around her waist, testing to see if they were secure.
“We’re about to take off; you might feel some discomfort in your ears and a slight flutter in your stomach as we ascend. If you want, we have gum here.” I pointed to a small box in front of us. “It can help ease the situation. Once the pilot stabilizes the flight, those sensations will pass, and it’ll feel like we’re on solid ground,” I assured her, and she nodded, still unsure. “Are you still scared?”
“Yes.”
“If you want, you can hold my hands,” I said, not even believing my own words. But as if waiting for this moment, Amapola quickly squeezed my fingers between hers, and I felt satisfied to be a source of comfort for her in this moment.