Page 56 of Mafia Virgin (The Kings of Italy)

“Stamps,” I blurted.

“Stamps for what?”

“Letters.”

“Interesting, then, that I saw you near the SIM cards.”

“Only because I was looking at the candy.”

His mouth curled into a knowing smile. “Oh? Pastries and candy this morning?”

I didn’t say anything. I was a terrible liar, but it was too late to back out now.

“Signore,” he called loudly to the tabacchi man. “Get my wife some stamps.”

The man cleared his throat. “Of course, Don Buscetta. What kind? Postcard, letter—”

“Whatever the fuck you have. All of it” Turning his full scowl onto the worker, he waved his hand. “Anything she wants.”

“Postcard, per favore,” I called as the worker sprinted to get the stamps. “There’s no need to be rude,” I whispered to Giacomo. “You’re scaring him.”

“He is not the one who should be scared.”

Though my insides were crumbling to terrified dust, I faced him bravely. I hadn’t done anything wrong. I went out to buy stamps, the end.

“Here you are, signora.” With a shaking hand, the man placed a sheet of postcard stamps on the counter.

“Grazie.” I opened my wallet. “How much?”

“Nothing.” Giacomo grabbed the stamps with one hand and my wrist with the other. He started towing me away from the counter.

I wrenched out of his grip. “I need to pay for those stamps.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.” I angled toward the counter, opening my wallet. “How much, signore?”

Before the man could answer, Giacomo tossed a fat stack of Euros onto the counter. “There. Now stop fucking arguing with me and get moving.”

Keep the peace. Don’t complain. Don’t make trouble.

It was what I used to say growing up, the by-product of having two rebellious older sisters. But I wasn’t in Toronto any longer, and Giacomo wasn’t Gia or Frankie.

I couldn’t let him push me around.

Once we were outside, I stopped on the sidewalk. “I did nothing wrong. You said I could explore Palermo.”

Giacomo came toward me, his face taut with anger. He pointed at his sedan, which was parked illegally at the curb. “Get in the fucking car, Emma.”

CHAPTERFIFTEEN

Giacomo

Ithought she’d been running away.

When the men told me she’d driven off in my Maserati, I instantly knew this excursion wasn’t about pastries. Emma had something up her sleeve.

Except she was shit at subterfuge. The woman was the worst liar I’d ever met.

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