Page 145 of Mafia Virgin (The Kings of Italy)

It was the night before my wedding.

Or “vow renewal ceremony,” as Emma called it. My wife was a stickler for details.

But I considered this our real wedding, one we chose for ourselves.

Unfortunately, I was spending the night before the ceremony with three men I would soon call family: Fausto Ravazzani, Enzo D’Agostino, and Roberto Mancini.

Fucking unbelievable. I couldn’t wrap my head around it.

The Ravazzanis flew in this morning from Siderno, while D’Agostino, Gia, and his two children, had been staying here for the past week with us. Emma and Gia had arranged all the wedding details in a surprisingly short amount of time.

Now the four of us, along with Zani and Vito D’Agostino, were settled in Mancini’s library with whisky and cigars. While the smoke was hot, the air remained frosty. We all had reasons to dislike and distrust one another.

Mancini was the single cheerful person in the room at the moment. And why wouldn’t he be? His three daughters had married the most powerful men in Italy.

I watched my father-in-law take a sip of whisky. “Should you be drinking that?” I asked.

“Absolutely not, so don’t tell my daughter.”

“Which one?” All three daughters were taking an active role in Roberto’s care, now that they knew his situation. Thankfully, my wife didn’t need to shoulder this burden alone any longer.

“Any of them,” Mancini said. “Don’t mention the whisky or the cigar.”

I raised my palms and puffed on my own cigar. Mancini deserved a little rebellion in his final months, in my opinion.

We sat in prolonged silence, no one willing to break the ice first. Ravazzani was polished and controlled, relaxed in his leather chair like a king. D’Agostino was the opposite, his leg bouncing with restless energy. I concentrated on my drink and waited. I wasn’t the talkative type and this was Mancini’s home, so I figured the conversational duties fell to him.

“It’s good that we’re all here,” my father-in-law finally said. “We need to bury the bad blood for the sake of my daughters.”

“With all due respect, Roberto,” Ravazzani said smoothly. “This is a happy occasion, no? We shouldn’t dredge up the past and ruin it.”

“And with all due respect to you, Fausto,” Mancini said. “You cannot refuse a dying man’s wish, especially on his daughter’s wedding eve. Now, I need to know the three of you will work together, as a family, after I’m gone.”

D’Agostino’s mouth twisted in distaste, like he’d tasted a sour lemon. “You ask the impossible. There is too much ugliness between us.”

“Nonsense.” Mancini stared at each of us intently. “And for the sake of my daughters, you will do this.”

No one offered up another protest, because Mancini knew how to hit us the hardest: by mentioning the women we loved.

Ravazzani checked the time on his gold watch, then sipped his drink silently, while D’Agostino’s leg began bouncing again.

“I have no issues with Buscetta,” D’Agostino offered up unhelpfully.

“I would say the same,” I said, “if only you hadn’t held my men at gunpoint until they let my wife leave.”

“She asked for my help in escaping you. What was I to do?”

“Stay the fuck out of it?”

D’Agostino leaned his head back and sent three perfect smoke rings toward the ceiling. “When my woman’s sister calls for help? If you think I can refuse, then you haven’t met Gianna Mancini.”

“We can all agree,” Mancini said a little louder, “that protecting your wives is paramount. If my daughters are mistreated or threatened in any way, then I expect one or more of you to intervene.”

“I did not mistreat her, for fuck’s sake,” I growled.

Ravazzani set his crystal tumbler onto the table with a snap. “You kicked her out. I think this qualifies, Buscetta.”

“I let her go—something neither of you were man enough to do when your woman wished to leave.” Yes, I knew the history between Ravazzani and his wife, as well as D’Agostino and Gia. These two could try to act like saints, but they were far from it. Both had held the women against their will.

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