Page 1 of Mafia Virgin (The Kings of Italy)

PROLOGUE

Giacomo

October

An undisclosed address in Calabria, Italy

The meeting was bullshit.

I had a thousand more important things to do than to sit down with these fucks. But apparently, taking over as the boss now meant doing a lot of shit I hated.

So I was here. But I had news for them—if they hoped to make peace between our clans, they were wasting their time. My plans to take back what was owed to me were already in motion.

Across the table sat three Ravazzanis: Fausto, the oldest and head of the vast criminal empire; his consigliere and cousin, Marco; and the heir, Giulio. Two other men were with them, and I assumed by the way the tall one hovered by Giulio’s side that it was his lover, the famous sniper Alessandro Ricci. He was every bit as impressive as the rumors made him out to be.

I should hate those two, seeing as how Giulio and Alessandro killed my brother and my father only four months ago.

Instead, I wanted to shake both their hands.

I loathed my father and brother. Always had. I hoped they were both being ass fucked dry in Hell. Repeatedly.

No, my problem with Ravazzani was business, not personal.

Impatient, I tapped my fingers on the table. Bernardo Virga, the head of the Sicilian Cosa Nostra,il capo di tutti capi, glared at me as if chastising me to stop. Fuck that. He demanded that I attend this, not that I play nice. I motioned with my hand for him to get started.

Introductions first. I shook hands and tried to appear relaxed. This was the part of the job I disliked—meetings and more meetings, talking for hours. I wasn’t a diplomat; I was a fighter. I’d rather settle an argument with my fists.

But Virga demanded my presence here, so I had little choice in the matter. Everyone was worried I would retaliate for the murder of my family, and they hoped to pacify me enough to drop the need for revenge.

Like I said, a wasted effort.

I announced the names of my three men quickly, ending with my closest confidant. “This is Francesco Zaniolo, my right hand.” I’d known Zani forever, and he was more like a brother to me than my own brother had been.

When it was Ravazzani’s turn, he pointed at his son. “And this is my oldest son, Giulio. He runs our’ndrinain Málaga now.”

I nodded, unimpressed, then looked at Ricci. “And this is yourragazzo, no? The famous sniper.”

The tall man gave no reaction, just continued to stare at me. His eyes were flat, calm. A soldier ready for battle. I could appreciate this.

It was Giulio who answered. “Yes.”

“I am a big fan of your work,” I said to Ricci, who merely dipped his head in acknowledgement.

Ravazzani launched in, saying, “My condolences on the death of your father and brother.”

Smart to mention this right away. The reminder of my murdered family would’ve irritated me if I gave a shit about either one of them. I folded my hands on the table. “They were both pricks. I hated them.”

The room fell silent. Not getting the reaction he’d obviously hoped for, Ravazzani gestured to Pasquale Borghese,capocrimineand head of the Calabrian ’Ndrangheta. “Let us get started.”

Borghese smiled like a kindly grandfather surveying naughty grandchildren. “The ugliness between your families has dragged on far too long. We are here today to settle it.”

“Ugliness?” Ravazzani sneered. “You mean how the late Don Buscetta pretended to be my ally while working with Mommo and D’Agostino to take me down? Or how Nino Buscetta sent men around Europe to hunt and kill my son like a dog? Is this the ugliness of which you speak?”

Was he truly acting the martyr? Treating me like acoglione? I didn’t always agree with my late father and brother—far from it—but Ravazzani was not blameless.

I hardened my voice. “You have repeatedly cut down our profits from the product coming in from the south. And your men killed my father and my brother.”

Don Ravazzani’s expression remained unchanged. “This does not make us even. At all.”

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