Page 32 of Mafia Virgin (The Kings of Italy)

But there was no choice. The world believed me to be the last true Buscetta, the final link to generations of the past. And I would play that part until I died, just to ensure that no one ever discovered the truth. I couldn’t let anyone find out one more Buscetta still existed, one that could be used to produce the next generation—whether she was willing or not.

I knew how our world worked. Women were used up and spit out, forgotten once their womb had done its duty. That would not happen to Viviana. My sister would not be subjected to more cruelty.

I wouldn’t subject any woman to it, even one I barely knew.

“I think she’s a virgin,” I said to Zani.

His head shot up. “Are you serious?”

“She all but admitted it last night.”

“I’m surprised, considering how the other two sisters ran wild before they settled down. Mancini certainly wasn’t watching them.” I could feel his eyes studying me before he said, “You like that she’s a virgin.”

I sent him a dark scowl. “Va eccati!Get the fuck out of here with that.”

“I’ve known you a long time. I know the anger you carry over the attention Nino received as the first born, how you were treated by your father. Are you telling me you don’t like the idea of—”

“Shut your fucking mouth. I’m not popping her cherry. It’s what Virga wants.”

But as silence descended in the car, a deep dark part of me worried that Zani might be right.

CHAPTERTEN

Emma

Ifound Giacomo in the cellar.

He’d requested my presence, apparently, but I wasn’t thrilled about going to see him. I didn’t like cellars. Never have. They’re dark and musty, and full of creepy crawly things.

Blood and gore I could handle. Creatures with more than two or four legs? No, thank you. Hard pass.

It turned out the Buscetta cellar wasn’t a cellar after all. Instead of cobwebs and mold, I stepped into a well-lit fully equipped gym.

Holy smokes.

Machines and weights were stationed in neat rows, while a full scale boxing ring sat in the back. Mirrors lined one entire wall, and American hip-hop music blared. I eyed the treadmill and made a mental note to ask Sal about using it.

Movement out of my eye caught my attention, and I froze, unable to process what I was seeing.

It was Giacomo and he was shirtless, covered only in long shorts and trainers, with his hands wrapped in white tape. Every inch of his olive skin glistened with sweat as he hit the bag with his fists over and over again. His movements sharp and well-practiced, I was mesmerized by the shift of his trapezius and deltoid muscles. Wide shoulders narrowed into a taut waist, and continued on to thick thighs.

Heat blossomed in my belly and rolled through my limbs. I felt like a voyeur, yet I couldn’t tear my gaze away.

Goodness, his forearms. They were huge and covered in tattoos. The real star, however, were his glutes. There was no fat on this man. None whatsoever. I knew without seeing him from the front that his abs were shredded, his obliques forming a perfect v-cut that women drooled over. Including me, apparently.

As someone familiar with anatomy, I could appreciate his strength and physical fitness. Yes,thatwas the reason for the tingling sensation coursing through my veins. Nothing more than a physical response to the beauty of the male form.

Because I couldn’t allow it to be anything else.

I must’ve shifted on my feet, because he abruptly stopped and glanced over his shoulder. Dark eyes pinned me to the spot.

I wasn’t capable of speech at the moment, so I lifted my hand in greeting.

Chest heaving with the force of his breaths, he turned—and I felt my knees turn to water. Good God. If I thought his body was perfect from the back, it didn’t compare to the front.

More tattoos. More taut olive skin. My gaze tripped over the ridges of his stomach muscles. I was right about the v-cut, which flanked a set of abs that belonged in a museum. I watched beads of sweat coast over his pectorals and resisted the urge to lick my lips.

My husband was ripped.Temporaryhusband, I amended.

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