Page 70 of Mafia Darling

* * *

The next morning, I went down into the dungeon alone. I wanted my enemy to see me in my wedding suit, see my happiness, and realize he would never have the same. He would never see his family again, never stand in the Italian sun. He would die soon at my hand, and I couldn’t fucking wait.

I considered this a wedding present to myself.

He cracked one swollen eye as I came in with a chair and sat down. Smoothing my tie, I took my time, letting him wonder why I was there. Marco, thanks to his training as a medic in the army, could keep a man barely alive, just enough to suffer, and Enzo was hovering on that line. He was thin and weak, a shell of that smug, smiling asshole who came onto my yacht and leered at my woman’s ass.

It was a beautiful sight.

“Buongiorno, D’Agostino.” I gave him my blandest smile. “Come stai?”

He said nothing, merely watched me, his breath rattling in his chest.

“Today is a good day. Would you like to know why?” When he didn’t answer, I jammed the toe of my dress shoe into his dislocated knee. He whimpered and I smiled wider. “Today is my wedding day. I will marry Francesca in a few hours out in the sunshine, surrounded by my family and friends. Then I will spend the rest of the night fucking her. You remember what that was like, no? Fucking your wife?”

His breathing picked up, but otherwise he didn’t react.

“Did you know she’s pregnant, my woman?”

That got a reaction from him. He blinked several times.

I folded my hands in my lap. “The entire time you had her in that trunk, when you shoved the gun in her mouth, she was carrying my child. A Ravazzani son or daughter.” I let that sink in. We both knew the importance of legacy and children. “Too bad you didn’t know,” I said with fake sympathy.

“Her sisters are here. Perhaps you met them last night? Francesca has asked me to keep you alive while her family is visiting. Remarkable, no? Even though you kidnapped her and scared her, my woman is kind enough to ask me to spare your miserable life for another few hours. So with every breath you take today you should thank her.”

I rose and moved the chair out of his cell, then returned and bent by his head. “But don’t worry, stronzo. When I’ve sent her sisters back to Toronto, I’ll come down and finish what I’ve started.” I lowered my voice. “And I promise you this: you will sign everything over to me before I kill you.”

Straightening, I turned and walked out of his cell. Over my shoulder, I called out, “Enjoy your last hours on Earth, D’Agostino.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Fausto

I married her in the vineyards.

As she bound herself to me for eternity, the rows of plants, my family’s legacy, stretched out to honor us. Francesca was barefoot, wearing the Celestina cream gown I’d chosen for her back when we thought she would marry my son. It was tight in the chest, thanks to her pregnancy, but still fit otherwise. A simple bouquet of white roses and lilies rested in her hands, while a delicate crown made from lilies of the valley and grape leaves sat atop her head, blonde hair long and loose down her back.

She’d never looked more beautiful.

We repeated our vows in front of the small group gathered to witness the ceremony. My family and her sisters were here, along with Emilia and Vincenzo. Tommaso was invited, and he brought Lamborghini.

Days ago, when I gave her my mother’s ring, I started the marriage paperwork with the government. So though today seemed like a surprise to my bride, I’d been planning it for a while. After the ceremony we would be wed in the eyes of man and God, until one of us left this earth.

The mayor of Siderno, Antonio Volpe, presided over our service. It was the least he could do, as I’d handed him the election three years ago. “Vi dichiaro marito e moglie!” the mayor announced at the end of the ceremony.

I exhaled in relief and turned to my bride, happiness sending my heart flying. I put one hand on her hip and another at her nape, then bent to kiss her. The cheers barely registered as I took my wife’s mouth, uncaring of who saw how much I wanted her. Her lips were soft and pliant, and she gave me command of the kiss, even when it turned hungry.

“Dai, andiamo!” Giulio finally called. “Break the glass, Papà, and let’s go eat.”

I eased off my wife’s mouth, pressing a few additional small kisses just to prolong this moment. I hadn’t felt a fraction of this joy, this intense satisfaction in my bride at my first wedding. I never wanted to forget this.

By the time I straightened, Francesca was clinging to me, her lips swollen and wet. Madre di Dio, she was beautiful. Marco handed me the red wine glass and left the small wooden dais, along with everyone else. “What are we doing?” she asked.

“Haven’t you been to an Italian wedding before?”

“No. Are we drinking wine together?”

I often forgot how young she was, how sheltered she’d been. I pushed a strand of hair behind her ears. “No, mia bella moglie. We break it. The number of shards represents the number of years we will be happily married.”

---