Page 53 of Mafia Virgin (The Kings of Italy)

His piercing? I knew some provided pleasure for a partner, but I found them intimidating. And I wasn’t having penetrative sex with him, so I would never feel it. “Did it hurt?”

“Not really.” He bent and started cleaning me off with the same bedsheet. “I’ve endured worse.”

What did that mean? Did he have other piercings? “How long have you had it?”

“I was twenty, so a long time.”

“What does it feel like?”

He eased off the end of the bed and straightened. “Now? I hardly notice it unless I’m having sex or in a car with the bass turned up.”

Oh, the vibrations. That made sense.

Raising up on my elbows, I closed my legs. “Can you urinate normally?”

“Of course.” He shook his head like I was exasperating him. “Dai, Emma. I just ate your pussy for the first time. Wouldn’t you rather discuss that?”

His piercing was far more fascinating, but I could see his point. “I suppose. Thank you, by the way.”

“You don’t need to thank me. I enjoyed it as much as you did.” Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply. “Cazzo, that’s nice. I’m going to sleep like a fucking baby with you dried all over my face.”

He wasn’t going to clean up? The tips of my toes tingled, my veins alive. Why was that so hot?

I sat up and edged toward the end of the mattress. “Well, I’m going to shower. So, good night.”

“See you in the morning, wife.” He crossed the room and disappeared into the hall, closing the door softly behind him.

I stared at the messy bed, the stained bedsheet. Between my legs was sticky and swollen, but I didn’t mind. I was relaxed, full of endorphins and dopamine. I should be embarrassed over begging him earlier. Maybe tomorrow the embarrassment would set in.

But right now I kind of wished he’d stayed. It would’ve been nice to feel his strong arms around me, if only for a few minutes.

Which was silly. We weren’t lovers or even friends. I was an annoyance, something he had to endure.

Except he hadn’t seemed too annoyed with me a moment ago.

Hmm. Maybe Giacomo wasn’t as difficult to understand as I feared.

* * *

What sort of man needed four cars?

I stared at the options in the Buscetta garage. There were two Ferraris—one red and one black—and a Maserati convertible. Giacomo’s sedan sat at the end, the only car I’d known him to drive.

The sedan was sensible, sure, but why drive a boring car when these flashier, faster models were available? This went against everything I knew of mafia men. They liked to show off their wealth and power, usually through luxury purchases.

I should take the sedan, as it was the most practical. But I didn’t want to drive his car. It felt too personal, even after last night. And me, in a Ferrari? I couldn’t see it. Gia would leap at the chance to drive a car like that, but it wasn’t really my thing.

That left the Maserati convertible.

I peeked into the interior. A manual stick shift, which I could handle. The fob sat in the cup holder between the two front seats. Perfect.

I needed to hurry. I had an errand to run before the household awoke.

I slid into the car’s buttery leather seat, then I adjusted it so I could reach the pedals. A few button presses later and I got the garage door open. The engine started smoothly and I dragged in a deep breath for courage as I backed out of the garage.

Something occurred to me last night. If my father moved to a safe house, a place Virga couldn’t reach, then I wouldn’t need to stay in Sicily. I wouldn’t need to stay married to Giacomo.

I wouldn’t experience any more nights like last night.

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