Page 12 of Mafia Virgin (The Kings of Italy)

Revulsion slithered over my skin. Hemurderedsomeone today. Minutes ago. My god.

I tried for reason. “Look, we’re married. We did it. Now I’ll go back to Canada and we’ll pretend this never happened.”

“Virga doesn’t care only about the marriage. And he—” He slammed his lips closed and shook his head.

“He, what?” When Buscetta didn’t answer, I kept talking. “Why are you agreeing to this? What dirt does he have on you to force you into this marriage?”

“There is nodirt. And what is between Virga and me is none of your business.”

Did he think I hadn’t been paying attention out there? “Who is Mirabella? Your girlfriend? Your relative?”

His jaw tightened and fury twisted the lines of his face. “Never say that name to me again, little girl. Capisce?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger. “You are making a huge mistake. Do you know who I’m related to?”

“Fausto Ravazanni,” he said, but the tone held no deference, no respect.

“And Enzo D’Agostino.”

“You are not related to D’Agostino. Your twin and he are not married.”

“A formality, believe me. They are as committed as two people can possibly be without a piece of paper. And both of my brothers-in-law will skin you alive for this.”

“Me? I’m not the one who forced you into this marriage. And Ravazzani can do nothing to help us. This is Sicily, not Siderno.”

I rubbed my forehead, a migraine forming between my temples. “I have to get back to Toronto as quickly as possible.” To my father.

There was no bend in his harsh expression, no understanding or mercy. “You will stay.”

“What are you saying?”

“I must follow Don Virga’s orders. As must you.”

I couldn’t believe this. “You aren’t going to fight? You’re going to let him win?”

He reacted as if I’d insulted his mother. His olive skin turned nearly purple, loathing burning in his eyes as he stared me down. “Let’s get this over with.”

CHAPTERFOUR

Emma

Oh, heck no. This was absolutely not happening.

I moved to the opposite wall and crossed my arms over my chest. “No way. This marriage will remain unconsummated.”

He frowned and blew out a long breath, his expression exasperated, like I was a toddler who wouldn’t listen to reason. But I wouldn’t budge.

Without warning, Buscetta spun and punched the wall. Twice.

My hand flew up to cover my mouth. What in the world . . . ?

Blood ran down his fingers, the cuts on his knuckles from earlier now openly bleeding. Without explanation he strode to the bed and yanked the top cover off. Then he sized me up head to toe, examining me. I took a step back.

Bending, he rubbed his bloody knuckles into the fitted bedsheet. A tiny smear of red was left behind.

Oh. That was actually pretty smart. Would that be enough to fool—

Then Buscetta’s hands went to his belt. The buckle jangled as he unfastened it and tore open his jeans. I croaked, “W-what are you doing?”

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