Page 102 of Mafia Virgin (The Kings of Italy)

He snorted. “They couldn’t hurt me. What they did was nothing compared to what happened in this house.”

His father, Don Gero. I was desperate to learn more. “Like what?”

“You don’t want to hear those stories.” He finished wrapping and reached for the boxing gloves.

“You’re wrong. I definitely do.”

He didn’t say anything, just shoved the glove on my left hand and secured it. “How does that feel?”

“Good,” I said. “Was your father an alcoholic?” Alcohol and abuse often were linked. Even still, I wasn’t above making wild guesses if it prompted him to share.

“No.” He slipped the other glove over my right hand. “Clear-eyed sober for every punishment.”

“And he hit you and your brother?”

He stopped and stared at a point on the far wall. “Only me. Nino was perfect in my father’s eyes. And it was never physical, not like that. It was a test of endurance, fucking mind games. Like locking me in the dark, or making me kneel for hours. Withheld food. He never left bruises or anything anyone else could see.” He shrugged and started to step away. “Now you know why I hate him.”

I snagged his arm with the thick gloves. “Baby, wait.” He didn’t look at me, like maybe he was ashamed or worried over my reaction, so I wrapped my arms around his waist and squeezed. “I’m sorry that happened to you. None of it was your fault, not one single thing. I hope you know that.”

He let out a long breath, but didn’t hug me back. I tried to pour all of my compassion and affection for him into this one-sided embrace. Was this why he didn’t want to be a father?

The moment stretched until he finally patted my back. “That’s enough,” he said gruffly. “Let me show you how to punch things, bambina.”

I reluctantly let him go.

For the next hour he instructed me on how to stand, how to shift my weight and throw a punch. There was a lot more to boxing than I’d realized. I thought it was two men in a ring beating the crap out of each other, but it was far more technical than that. It required power, yes, but also intelligence. You had to anticipate your opponent’s next move, learn how to defend yourself. Attack where they didn’t see it coming.

Mostly, boxing was about employing strategy to use your strengths against an opponent’s weakness.

Panting, I slumped on the ropes in the ring and tried to catch my breath. It was annoying that my husband wasn’t even breathing hard. “This is why you’re a great don.”

He looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “What are you talking about?”

“Because of boxing.” I gestured to the ring. “I can see why you’re good at both things. You’re smart, calm, disciplined. This was good training to take over for your father.”

“Most people would say stepping into a ring to get hit is the dumbest thing a person can do.”

He’d obviously heard this a time or two. And to be fair, I might’ve said the same thing an hour ago. “It’s not dumb. It’s very brave. And if you weren’t smart, you wouldn’t have been so successful at it.”

His brows lowered in confusion. “How do you know I was any good?”

“Sal has mentioned it. He said you were very impressive.”

He leaned back on the ropes, hooking his elbows out to the side and showing off his impressive chest. “I did okay. I made a lot of money.”

“Did you get one of those gaudy giant belts?”

A grin split his face and he laughed, a rare sight that I soaked up like a sponge. “Sì, I did get some of those gaudy giant belts.”

“Can I see one?”

“Take off your top and I’ll think about it.”

“What?” I huffed in surprised amusement.

“You heard me. Show me your tits and I’ll consider it.”

He was serious, those intense eyes devouring me, and my belly tightened as desire raced through me. I licked my lips. “But I’m wearing these,” I said in a shy voice, holding up my boxing gloves. “I’m helpless, mio grande marito.”

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