Page 23 of Condemned to You

I couldn’t help but laugh. “You’ve thought about this already so just spit it out.”

“Freya.”

“Not bad.”

“Mr. Albertsson are you and your guest ready for your massages?” An attendant approached us.

We were taken to a secluded area where there were two masseuses waiting by two floating mats and light background music. Instantly, I was regretting this but there was no going back now. Bethany wanted to try this in-water massage that one of the spa techs stated “unlocks higher levels of well-being for your mind, body, and spirit with the revitalizing powers of geothermal seawater.”

I feel like an idiot floating on this mat draped in a warm blanket with cucumbers on my eyelids but my body felt relaxed for the first time in what felt like forever. There was a sudden change in music from a soft melody to a lyrical song. The more I listened to it, the more it sounded familiar. Honing in on the words, I realized it was in a different language. It’s Sicilian. That’s odd to be playing it here.

La mafia e li parrini (The Mafia and the priests)

Si déttiru la manu (Shook hands with each other)

Poviru cittadinu (Poor citizen)

Poviru paisanu (Poor villager)

When I realized what the words were, I ripped the cucumbers off my eyelids throwing them into the water and quickly got onto my feet startling everyone.

“Is everything okay?” My masseuse asked.

“What happened?” Bethany questioned.

I huff, “Nothing. Just fell asleep and woke up.” Playing it off as best as possible. Was I just being paranoid? Laying back on the mat, I tried to relax again. The masseuse placed the cucumbers back onto my eyes but I threw them into the water. She didn’t say a word when I gave her a look, just a tight smile.

Unu isa la cruci (One raises the cross)

L'autru punta e spara (The other points and shoots)

Unu minaccia 'nfernu (One threatens hell)

L'autru la lupara (The other the shotgun)

It was a Sicilian song sung by Rosa Balistrei and written by the poet Ignazio Buttitta. The song was to call out the connection between the mafia and many priests during that time. Why would they play that here? My heart pumped in my chest, my mind immediately went to Cassie. Was this just a coincidence or was someone playing mind games with me? I was all too familiar with the strategy of mind games to instill lingering fear within someone.

The air was thick with the smell of espresso and the distant sounds of clinking glasses. A flickering overhead light cast shadows on the dark wooden table where Marco in a sharp suit, leaned back in his chair, a cigar nestled between his fingers. Across from him, I sat anxiously.

“You want to be a player in this game, Emilio? You gotta learn how to play with minds, not just muscles.”

Confused, I question what I did wrong, “I mean, I’m no mind reader.”

Marco chuckles softly, the kind of laugh that carries both amusement and a hint of menace.

“It ain't about readin’ minds. It’s about plantin’ seeds. You see, people are like gardens. You just gotta know what to plant and when to water it.” Marco takes a slow puff from his cigar, contemplating his next words. “Let’s say you want to send a message to Giovanni, the butcher. He thinks he runs this neighborhood. You want him to know you’re the one in charge, but you don’t want to spill a drop of blood. You don’t just go up to him and tell him right?”

He offered me a cigar, which I knew I couldn’t decline even though I wasn’t a fan of them. So I took it and lightly puffed on it.

He says, “You see, words are powerful, but actions? They speak louder than a thousand whispers. You let him see something.”

Marco reached for the newspaper then slid it across the table. I picked it up and read the front page revealing an image of the local butcher shop, its glass door shattered, blood staining the sidewalk. This sent more than just a message to the butcher, it was a warning for anyone else who wanted to test Marco’s father.

My eyes widen, the weight of the implication sinking in. “So, that was you.”

“You don’t break his legs, you break his confidence. You let him know that if he's not careful, he might end up like that door.”

“What if he goes to the cops?”