Page 18 of Mafia Virgin (The Kings of Italy)

“He’s a good man.” Sal added the herbs he’d been chopping to the pan on the stove. “A kind soul.”

Were we talking about the same man? The one who’d murdered a man today?

I sipped my wine and switched topics. “How long have you been on the estate?”

“Dai, I know what you are doing.” He shook his wooden spoon at me playfully. “Fine. We won’t talk about him. I’ve been here over thirty-six years, ever since I lost my eye.” He pointed at his left eye, which was clearly glass. I’d noticed it earlier.

“How did you lose it?”

“This is a gruesome tale, not fit for a lady’s ears.”

“Sal, I intend to go to medical school. I’ve been studying science and anatomy for years. You can’t gross me out.”

“It was a baseball bat, signora.”

Considering the world we both lived in, I assumed this injury didn’t occur during a baseball game. “An orbital fracture?”

“Yes, and my retina detached. Cheekbone shattered, too. I had several surgeries, but they couldn’t save my eye.”

That must’ve been incredibly painful. “Well, your glass eye looks very natural. They did a good job matching it to your other one.”

“This eye is new. Had it put in four months ago. Giacomo—Don Buscetta—bought it for me because the old one didn’t fit right.”

Just then Zani came back in, his mouth curved in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, as I heard a car drive away from the house. “When is dinner, Sal? I’m starving.” He dropped onto the stool next to me.

He didn’t need to put on a show for my benefit. “You don’t have to stay and babysit me. I’m sure you have a lot more interesting things to do.”

“I have nothing more exciting than this, signora. Good food, good company . . . it is every Italian man’s dream.”

Sal served a fantastic eggplant dish. I ate two helpings while Zani kept up a stream of lively conversation.

Before he left, Zani promised to come check on me tomorrow. “Buona notte, Emma. It will get better, I swear.”

I doubted it, but didn’t argue.

After Zani left, Sal took off his apron and folded it neatly. “Let’s get you settled. Giacomo didn’t say whether to put you in his room or—”

“Different room. Please.” I didn’t care if I slept in a broom closet, but I wasn’t sleeping in Buscetta’s bed.

“This is no problem, signora. We have plenty of unused bedrooms here.”

Sal had mentioned that Buscetta’s father and brother were dead. As we started through the house, I wondered what happened to Buscetta’s mother. Was she dead, too? I knew next to nothing about this family—myhusband’sfamily.

Tacky was the only way to describe the house’s decor. There was gold filigree and big ornate furniture, flanked with heavy drapery, tall mirrors, and white marble. It was like a French baroque king threw up everywhere in here. We continued down the long corridor and started up the steps. Sal went slow, his leg mobility affected by an old injury, and I matched his pace.

Once we arrived on the second floor, he pointed left. “Giacomo sleeps in his childhood bedroom down there.”

I drifted to the right, eager to put as much distance between Buscetta’s bedroom and myself. “What’s down this way?”

“The bigger bedrooms. Those belonging to the late Don Buscetta and his son.”

“What about Don Buscetta’s wife?”

“No one has slept in the late Signora Buscetta’s rooms since she passed away.”

“How long ago was that?”

“More than twenty years now.”

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