Page 142 of Mafia Virgin (The Kings of Italy)

“Donot,” I snarled, “even bring it up.”

He muttered a string of curses under his breath and continued with his phone. When it rang a few minutes later I assumed it was one of his many hookups.

“Pronto,” he said, mobile at his ear. “Tutto bene?” He listened for a few more seconds. “You’re kidding. No shit? Sì, sì. We’re on our way.”

“Cosa?” I asked when he disconnected.

“Sal needs you at home.”

“What for?”

“An emergency, he said.”

This wasn’t like Sal. He wasn’t one to panic. He’d faced some tough shit in his life. “What emergency?”

“He didn’t give me any more information. Said to come right away.”

“Any word from the guards?”

“No, nothing.”

So it wasn’t anything to do with security or the outside perimeter, which meant it wasn’t important enough to pull me away from family business. Especially to bring me back to the house, a place I’d mostly avoided since returning from Toronto. Too many memories, too many reminders. She was everywhere I turned and it was fucking torture. And Sal followed me around, like a worried mother hen.

I ground my back teeth together. “If this is about getting me to eat again, I’m taking his other eye.”

“You can’t blame him for being worried about you,” Zani explained calmly. “It’s his job.”

“His job is to take care of the house, not me.”

Zani went back to his phone and the car fell silent for the rest of the way. By the time we arrived at the estate, I was ready to strangle someone. The guard gave me a nod before opening the gate, and we continued along the drive. I slammed the car door shut and stomped to the kitchen door, Zani right behind me.

The smell hit me as soon as I entered the room.Lemons and sugar.

Her. She was here.

My head swung toward the bar. A small frame was there, perched on a stool, long brown hair swirling down her back, cup in her hand. She angled toward the door, her brown gaze assessing me as I drank in the sight of her.

Zani bumped into me from behind. “Che cazzo?” Then he edged to the side. “Ah. Ciao, signora.” His hand clapped me on the shoulder and he pitched his voice low. “Buona fortuna, amico.”

Zani gave me a shove and shut the door, leaving me alone with Emma. Sal was nowhere to be found, the traitor. We would have strong words later. A warning that my wife had returned would’ve been appreciated.

I stood there, silent. My tongue felt thick and useless in my mouth. I didn’t know what to say to this woman anymore. I’d poured my heart out until there was nothing left. Has she forgotten something here? Otherwise, why not ring me instead of flying all the way here? Why not sign the annulment papers and mail them back?

Punishments are always best delivered face-to-face.

How could I forget? This was practically the Buscetta family motto, a lesson instilled in me from a very young age.

Fine. She could deliver her bad news and then go. I would not break.

I shoved my shoulders back and started forward. Though my empty stomach churned, I went to the refrigerator and took out a sparkling water. Then I leaned against the counter, crossed my legs and opened the bottle. And waited.

“Hi,” she said, her voice rougher than usual. “How have you been?”

Did she honestly care? “I have shit to do, Emma. Say what it is you need to say and let’s be done.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Her eyelids fluttered as she blinked rapidly. “Is that all you have to say to me after almost a month?”

I took a long swig from the bottle, the crisp water tasteless in my mouth. “What would you like me to say?”

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