Page 35 of Mafia Virgin (The Kings of Italy)

Then I saw the men behind him, the prone body being carried into the cellar by several hands. Even from here I could see the blood on the man’s shirt.

I hit the stop button and began slowing down.

“Emma, go upstairs,” Giacomo barked.

Zani moved around him and led the group into a side room. Everyone ignored me, except my husband. He pointed to the stairs. “Move, woman. This does not concern you.”

I stepped off the treadmill and grabbed my water bottle. “Wait, is someone hurt? I can help.”

“The doctor is on the way. I do not need you involved.”

“Giacomo, please.” I came toward him. “I can be useful, I promise. I shadowed a Toronto trauma doctor for four months and I volunteered at the hospital.” He looked unimpressed, so I continued my rambling. “And I watch a lot of surgeries online. Blood won’t freak me out.”

Sal started down the stairs, a tray of supplies in his hands. He was moving slowly, and Giacomo turned to climb the steps to take the tray from the housekeeper’s hands.

See? Decent man.

I didn’t wait. I hurried into the side room, which was more like a mini clinic. The injured man had been laid out on a table, and all the soldiers were standing around, like they didn’t know what to do.

I pressed through the large bodies to get closer to the table, suspicious gazes tracking my movements. I ignored them and assessed the patient. His complexion was pale and his teeth were chattering slightly. I knew what this meant, but I wasn’t exactly qualified to start giving orders. Especially not to this crowd.

With men, I sometimes found it best to let them think an idea was theirs, not mine.

“Is he in shock?” I asked Zani. “Should we cover him with a blanket?”

“I’ll fetch one, signora.” Zani hurried from the room.

“Emma!” Giacomo barked, slamming the tray of supplies down on the end of the table.

Frowning, I shook off his disapproval. He might not want me here, but that didn’t mean I would leave.

The injured man was holding a cloth—an old shirt?— loosely on the wound. It was soaked through, so moving around the table, I went to Sal’s tray of supplies. I pulled on latex gloves first, then started opening heavy gauze bandages, the kind for deep wounds. Sal was well stocked, so this emergency care must be a regular occurrence. That was an issue to consider later on.

I went to the head of the table and held up the scissors and gauze in my hands. “Here,” I said quietly to the injured man. “Let me help you.”

He glanced over my head—at Giacomo, no doubt—then lifted his hand so I could remove the soaked cloth. Then I cut away the man’s shirt to reveal the wound. The gash was deep, but not ragged. I immediately pressed fresh gauze on it to stem the bleeding, and the man winced. “Hang in there,” I told him. “You’re doing great.”

Sal was suddenly by my side, also wearing gloves and holding gauze packets. Between the two of us, we kept pressure on the wound, while the injured man fell in and out of consciousness. I talked to him softly in an effort to keep him calm whenever he was lucid.

A man in his late fifties or early sixties pushed in, edging me out of the way. I assumed he was the doctor when he placed a black medical bag on the floor. Was he chewinggum?

He withdrew a pair of gloves from his coat pocket. “Who is this woman, Don Buscetta?”

“Someone who shouldn’t be in here,” was Buscetta’s gruff answer.

Really? That was all he was going to say? “I am Signora Buscetta,” I said loudly. “And who are you?”

The doctor’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead before he turned to focus on Giacomo again. “I hadn’t heard. My congratulations, Don Buscetta.”

“There is a man bleeding here,” I pointed out.

The look on the doctor’s face said he didn’t care for my stating the obvious. He addressed Giacomo like I wasn’t in the room. “I cannot work with a woman here, Don Buscetta. You understand, no? They grow hysterical and distract from the procedure.”

Giacomo nodded, as if this made sense. Which it absolutely did not.

“Emma,” he growled, waving his fingers for me to come over to him.

I stayed put. “You can’t be serious,” I said to them both. “I will notgrow hysterical. And your misogynist opinions are an insult to female medical professionals everywhere.”

---