Page 132 of Mafia Virgin (The Kings of Italy)

I could feel the edges of my vision start to swim, blackness creeping in along with the guilt. I killed someone. I was a killer, a murderer.

I bent over at the waist and tried to breathe, but the air wouldn’t come. My throat closed up, and I knew I was going to suffocate. I dropped to my knees, bracing my hands on the ground.

From far away, I heard a familiar voice. “Amore, amore. Bambina, come here.”

Boots appeared in my vision, then gentle hands were pulling me up. Giacomo was kneeling there, his eyes clouded with worry. His palms cradled my face, but I couldn’t feel him. I couldn’t feel anything.

“Breathe, Emma,” he said sharply. “Take a breath.”

I tried, but all I could manage was short huffs of air that did no good. I couldn’t make my lungs work properly.

I’m having a panic attack.

I knew what was happening, but all the advice, all the ways to alleviate a panic attack eluded me. I couldn’t think straight. I shook my head, my free hand clutching Giacomo’s shirtfront in desperation.

His fingers tightened on my skin and he looked me square in the eyes. The coffee-colored irises held so much trust and affection, a softness I’d hardly seen from him before. “You can do it,” he said quietly. “I promise. You’re safe. Everyone is safe. I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you ever again. Just breathe, bambina. Per favore? For me, just breathe.”

The vise inside my chest eased a fraction and I was able to suck in a shallow breath.

His lips curled up at the edges and he started taking deep breaths to encourage me. “That’s it, amore. Keep going. In and out, like me.”

I matched his pace, inhaling and exhaling slowly. My vision cleared and I felt myself return to my body as if coming out of a dream. My knees were on the ground, my hand gripping Giacomo, and his thumbs caressed my jaw. I leaned into his touch, so relieved I could cry.

Leaning in, he pressed a kiss to my forehead. “That’s my good girl. So brave. You saved my life, bambina.”

“I killed him,” I whispered into the hollow of my husband’s throat.

“No, Emma. You shot him. I killed him.”

That made me feel marginally better, but I didn’t like the idea of hurting someone, of being responsible for someone else’s death. I wanted to heal people. Was I kidding myself? Maybe someone like me, coming from the world in which I grew up, couldn’t escape this evil.

Giacomo wrapped his arms around me and pulled me against his warm chest. “Whatever you are thinking, stop. You’re a good person. You aren’t cruel or vindictive. But it was his life or mine—and you saved my life.”

I nodded. I understood, but I wasn’t ready to celebrate it. And Massimo was still hurt on my father’s floor. “I need to go inside.”

“Zani and I will take care of things out here.” He eased back, but didn’t let go of me. “Ti amo, mia bella moglie.”

Warmth settled inside my chest, thawing me out slightly, but I couldn’t say it back. The words were stuck. I had too much swirling in my head, too many emotions warring in my chest. I gave him an attempt at a smile, then kissed his cheek.

When I turned, he put a hand out to stop me. “Wait.”

“Giacomo.” I sighed in annoyance. “I really need to get inside. Massimo D’Agostino is bleeding out on the floor upstairs.”

“Give me the gun, bambina.”

I realized he was trying to pry the pistol from my fingertips, but I had a death grip on the handle. “Oh.” I released the metal, glad to get rid of the weapon. If I never shot another gun, it was too soon.

“Good girl,” he said and kissed my forehead again. “Go and save him, amore.”

Taking care not to look at the bodies on the drive, I hurried inside and went upstairs. My feet couldn’t move fast enough as I ran the length of the hall. When I reached my father’s room I heard someone banging on the closet door. I unlocked it and found Gloria there, sweaty and disheveled.

“Thank god. That man forced me in here and I couldn’t get out.” She saw the bed. “Oh, no! Roberto!”

“He’s been given morphine, but he’s okay.” I could see the steady rise and fall of his chest under the blankets. “Help me with Massimo.”

Gloria worked in an emergency room in Toronto for years, so she sprang into action. She grabbed a pair of gloves from Papà’s first aid kit and knelt by Massimo to assess his injury. Taking out her phone, she called my father’s private physician and told him we had a gunshot wound and he needed to come right away.

“You made it sound like my father’s been shot,” I told her as I put pressure on Massimo’s wound.

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