Page 39 of Mafia Virgin (The Kings of Italy)

“And tie myself to this woman—and Mancini and Ravazanni and D’Agostino—for the rest of time? Fuck no.”

“You could do worse for in-laws. And the two of you are already married. No one can say shit about her getting pregnant. Most people would expect it.”

I didn’t want a wife, especially a quiet Canadian pre-med student. And I really didn’t want a child. What did I know about fathers and having a family, except suffering and mind games? I was cursed, an evil seed.Malocchio. It was what made me unrelenting and ruthless in the ring. A blunt object of destruction pain.

I intended to rule Palermo in exactly the same way.

“Mo, the whole world learns of Viviana’s existence if you bring her here,” Zani said quietly. “You’ve kept her a secret for this long. Don’t let your selfishness put her at risk.”

My heart squeezed painfully. The sound in the room was suddenly too loud, the sunlight too bright. I wanted to howl and scream. I wanted to hit someone, kill someone with my bare hands. I hated this. I hated the helplessness, the uncertainty.

Mostly I hated Virga for manipulating me.

I couldn’t believe I was contemplating going through with it, but Zani was right. Better to ruin my life than Viv’s.

And it was nothing new. Protecting her was how I’d endured my father’s cruelty for years, the words a loop in my head.Better me than her, better me than her.How could I abandon that now?

I couldn’t.

I propped my hands on the desk and leaned over, my muscles like lead. Stupidly, I thought everything would be easy once the old man died. But my father was still fucking up my life from beyond the grave. He must be loving this from his special place in Hell.

“Bring the fucking doctor in here,” I snarled. “I have questions.”

While Zani was gone, I downed another full glass of whisky. The liquor burned all the way to my stomach, dulling some of the pain twisting me in knots. I tried to tell myself it didn’t matter, that a wife and child didn’t matter. Men in my position married for political reasons all the time. This would be no different. God knew my parents hadn’t been happily married.

It was a duty. A burden. Nothing more.

Emma would have the child, then return to Toronto after a speedy divorce. I would hire nannies or whatever the fuck, and the child would carry on the Buscetta line when I died.

Virga would suffer, however. The first chance I had I would kill that stronzo. Slowly. Painfully.

Zani came back with Dr. Mazzola. I pointed to the chair in front of the desk. “Sit down.”

Mazzola put his black bag on the floor, then lowered himself warily into the chair. “Yes, Don Buscetta?”

I folded my hands on the desk and leaned in. “First, if you repeat a word of this conversation, I’ll pull your intestines out through your asshole. Capisce?”

Mazzola paled, but nodded. “Of course.”

“I need to get my wife pregnant in a very short amount of time. I want to understand the process, the timetable, so it can happen as efficiently as possible.”

If the question surprised him, Mazzola gave no indication of it. Then again, he was old school. Likely it wasn’t the first time he’d had this particular chat with a Sicilian mobster.

“Do you have a calendar or a planner handy?” Mazzola waved his hand at my desk.

My upper lip curled. “Not many office supplies around here. Just get to the fucking point.”

“Here.” Zani put his phone on the desk and I saw the calendar app was open. “Use this.”

“Thank you,” Mazzola said, leaning in to see the display. “What is your timeframe?”

“Three months.”

“Three months from seven days ago,” Zani qualified.

Has it already been a week? Dio, that was depressing.

The doctor’s eyebrows shot up. “That is ambitious.”

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