Page 110 of Mafia Darling

Marco let me go and took two of Giulio’s suitcases. Zia cried softly at my side, using a fancy lace handkerchief to wipe her eyes, as Giulio followed Marco out the door. When the heavy wood closed with a snap, Fausto didn’t move. He just stared at the empty spot where his son had been. Zia began reciting prayers and hurried toward the kitchen. “Padre Nostro, che sei nei cieli . . .”

Pain swamped my entire body. It felt like someone had carved out my chest with a spoon. I couldn’t catch my breath, my lungs struggling for air as I continued to cry. Then Fausto’s shoulders dropped, like he couldn’t bear the weight of them any longer, and my heart broke a little more.

I couldn’t stand it. I closed the distance between us and wrapped my arms around him, careful of his injury, and pressed my cheek to his shoulder blades. His big body trembled and he put his free hand on top of mine. We stood there for a long time. “Ti amo,” I said into the thin cotton t-shirt he wore.

He nodded, but didn’t speak, and that tore me apart. My man felt deep, and this was undoubtedly the worst day of his life.

“I need to go lie down,” he said after another minute.

“I’ll help you.” I shifted to his side, but he held up a hand.

“No, please. I need to be alone for a bit.”

His expression was ragged. Destroyed. Bleakness like I’d never seen haunted his beautiful eyes. “Okay,” I said, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “Ring if you need anything.”

Leaning in, he pressed his lips to my temple, pausing there for a long second. Then he pulled away and began making his way up the stairs, his movements stiff and heavy. I waited until he was at the top, then I went outside into the bright sunshine, to breathe fresh air. To remind myself that life was worth living, no matter where we were.

* * *

Fausto

San Luca

Sanctuary of Our Lady of Polsi

The drive up the mountain was slow and bumpy. I winced with every twist and turn, but didn’t complain. The church and monastery were situated in the Aspromonte mountains in Calabria, nestled in the bottom of a gorge. I was grateful for the road, rough as it was. A few decades ago, the place was accessible only by foot.

Tradition dictated the ’Ndrangheta leaders meet here, and I had never missed Crimine. I wasn’t about to start now, even though I felt terrible.

I could endure it. I had a lot to accomplish today.

“How are you doing back there?” Marco looked over his shoulder from the passenger seat.

“Fine,” I gritted out.

“Stitches feel okay?”

They burned like the fires of hell, but I didn’t want him to baby me. “Yes. Stop worrying. You are worse than Zia.”

“Zia’s not half as bad as your wife. I already have fifteen text messages from her.”

I picked up my phone and texted Francesca:

I am fine.

We are almost there.

Stop texting Marco.

Her response was almost immediate:

Then answer my texts and I won’t have to!

If you get hurt I’ll never forgive you

Then she sent a string of emojis that made me crack a smile. It mostly included eggplants and water droplets, but I knew what she meant. I sent her back a heart.

Paparino! You sent me an emoji!

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