Page 54 of Mafia Virgin (The Kings of Italy)

But I knew my father. He wouldn’t agree to go on his own and I couldn’t tell him why I was asking. That meant involving my Uncle Reggie. He could tell Papà there was an active threat and the safe house was non-negotiable. But I couldn’t contact my uncle with my own mobile, which Virga probably bugged before returning to me. Nor did I trust the phones in the Buscetta household. Anyone could be listening there.

This meant getting my hands on a burner phone.

I hadn’t used one before, but I was confident I could figure it out. I just had to buy one first, which meant going into the city without Sal or Giacomo finding out.

To be fair Giacomo did tell me to take a car and explore Palermo. I was merely taking him up on his generous offer. Before anyone else was awake.

I slipped the car into first gear and eased off the clutch—and saw Sal emerge through the kitchen door. My heart sank, but I gave him a cheery wave. I wasn’t doing anything wrong.

Sal looked tired as he limped toward the car, blocking me, concern etched in his brow. “Buongiorno, signora,” he said, his good eye inspecting me as he leaned on the edge of the driver’s door. “You are up early. Where are you going?”

“To get some pastries,” I lied. “I thought I’d explore the city a bit.”

“Ah, I understand. I’ll have one of the guards come with you.”

“No, that’s not—”

“Dai.” He patted the roof of the car. “We must keep you safe, signora. Unless you’d like me to wake your husband and have him join you instead?”

“No!” I said loudly. Too loudly. “You don’t need to do that. I mean, back home I’m allowed to go where I please without protection.”

Sal waved this away. “Foolish of your father. And Palermo is not Toronto. Drive up to the gate and wait. One of the boys will jump in with you.”

Shoot.

I swallowed my arguments. They were futile. I’d have to find another way to get a pay-as-you-go phone today.

I put the car in drive, waved to Sal and left. The gate was closed when I came to the bottom of the property. Two men were there, smoking, and I could see the obvious bulges under their jackets. Their faces registered their unhappiness.

One of the men started for the car, so I sighed and unlocked the doors.

The smell of stale cigarette smoke hit me like a brick when he got in. “Signora,” he said respectfully.

I lowered my window for fresh air. “Buongiorno. What is your name?”

“Rafael.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Emma.” The gate began to swing open. “How do I get to downtown Palermo?”

“Turn right. I’ll direct you from there. Any place in particular?”

“A bakery, please. A popular one,” I amended.

“Pasticceria Oscar.” He leaned forward and started punching buttons into the car’s GPS system. “But a long wait at this hour.”

The directions loaded and I started off. Any attempt to engage Rafael in conversation was met with a one-word answer, so I finally gave up and concentrated on my driving.

Palermo was a fascinating mix of old and new, with a lot of Arabic-inspired architecture. It was hot and dry here, the land surrounded by mountains on one side and the Mediterranean on the other. There were no skyscrapers, no congestion. The air held the tang of the ocean and not a single cloud marred the blue sky. It was beautiful.

We found the bakery, which was directly off a busy thoroughfare. Things were looking up.

I began searching for parking. “Che cosa?” Rafael asked, his head swiveling. “You drove right by it.”

“I’m looking for somewhere to park.”

He snorted. “A Buscetta doesn’t need to find parking. Pull right to the front. No one will say a word.”

Was he serious? “I can’t do that.”

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