Emma

Oh, heck no. This was absolutely not happening.

I moved to the opposite wall and crossed my arms over my chest. "No way. This marriage will remain unconsummated."

He frowned and blew out a long breath, his expression exasperated, like I was a toddler who wouldn't listen to reason. But I wouldn't budge.

Without warning, Buscetta spun and punched the wall. Twice.

My hand flew up to cover my mouth. What in the world . . . ?

Blood ran down his fingers, the cuts on his knuckles from earlier now openly bleeding. Without explanation he strode to the bed and yanked the top cover off. Then he sized me up head to toe, examining me. I took a step back.

Bending, he rubbed his bloody knuckles into the fitted bedsheet. A tiny smear of red was left behind.

Oh. That was actually pretty smart. Would that be enough to fool-

Then Buscetta's hands went to his belt. The buckle jangled as he unfastened it and tore open his jeans. I croaked, "W-what are you doing?"

"I am doing what needs to be done. Unless you'd like to help me?"

He reached inside his briefs and pulled out a very thick penis. I saw a flash of silver before quickly averting my eyes. "Oh, my god! Warn a girl first."

He muttered in Italian and I heard his clothing rustle. I didn't look. It felt like an invasion of privacy. Was he . . . ?

Then he grunted softly, a soft erotic sound.

Holy smokes, yes he was. He was masturbating in the room with me. What in the world? Why? How was he even aroused?

Questions bombarded my brain at a rapid-fire pace. Gia always said I was too curious for my own good, but I was a proud science nerd. Curiosity came with the territory.

Then I thought about that smear of blood on the sheet. Buscetta was adding semen to the deception to make it believable. Doing what needed to be done, as he said, so Virga would think the marriage had been consummated.

Wow, that was actually pretty smart.

Another grunt sounded behind me. I'd seen men masturbate in videos before. I knew what it looked like, the stroking up and down, strong fingers swiping over the sensitive glans. Most Italian men weren't circumcised, which meant Giacomo's foreskin would offer a small amount of natural lubrication.

And now I was thinking about his foreskin. What was wrong with me? I should be repulsed. I should be running out of the room.

Instead, my skin was growing hot. I could hear his heavy breathing, the sound of skin rhythmically sliding on skin. His belt buckle jangled with the force of his movements, his fist tugging hard on his shaft. I could sense his arousal climbing, his pace increasing, and my mouth dried out. Were his muscles taut? His forearm veins popping?

I couldn't help it. I peeked.

His heavy lidded eyes were locked on me. Not on my chest or my ass, but on my face. Like he knew I would sneak a glance at some point and he was waiting to catch me.

His lips curved in satisfaction, softening his features, and I felt an answering tug in my lower belly. Oh, this was wrong on so many levels.

I spun toward the wall, an apology stuck in my throat.

The mattress springs creaked, then his breath hitched. I didn't move, didn't blink, as the moment stretched, but I imagined what was happening. I pictured the semen leaving his shaft, his head thrown back in ecstasy, muscles clenched as he ejaculated. Hormones, organs and nerves all working together to produce the greatest high humans could ever experience.

My whole body tingled.

"You can turn around now."

I spun slowly and found Buscetta buckling his belt. I wasn't sure what to say. Good job?

With one hand, he ripped the stained bottom sheet off the bed. "Let's go." He started for the door, not waiting to see if I followed.

I hurried after him. I didn't know where we were going, but no way was I staying in this hotel room. Besides, I had no phone, no money. I'd take my chances on the Palermo streets with Buscetta.

At the door he paused and looked me over. The displeasure in his expression made it clear I'd disappointed him somehow. "Try to look as if you've just had the fucking of a lifetime."

"What does that mean?" I stared down at myself. What was I supposed to look like after sleeping with him? "Should I mess up my hair?"

He heaved yet another sigh, shook his head, and yanked open the door. Once we entered the other room, Buscetta tossed the sheet at Virga's feet. "There's your proof."

Virga poked at the sheet with his toe. "That was fast. Too bad for your wife, eh, Don Buscetta?"

A stamina joke. Awesome. I guess we were checking all of the clichéd misogynist boxes today.

Buscetta and his man were already out the door, but I didn't move. To Virga, I said softly, "You made me a promise. I expect you to honor it by bringing your men home from Toronto."

"I don't negotiate with wives," Virga sneered, not even bothering to look at me. "You may bring this issue to your husband and he will discuss it with me. As is customary."

I heard the elevator ding in the hall. Shoot. I needed to get out of this hotel room, away from this nightmare. "This conversation isn't over."

When I reached the hall the elevator doors were just closing. "Wait!" I sprinted down the hall. A hand shot out to keep the metal doors open and I dashed inside. The other man who came with Buscetta was holding the door. "Thank you," I told him as the doors closed.

"Prego," he said with a deferential nod. "Signora Buscetta, a pleasure to meet you. I am Francesco Zaniolo, your husband's incredibly handsome friend and right-hand man."

Buscetta snarled something in Italian, but the only word I caught was pig.

I shook Francesco's hand. "Nice to meet you, Signore Zaniolo."

"Please, call me Zani."

"Then you must call me Emma."

Don Buscetta grunted. I frowned at him, even though he ignored me. Not a big talker, this man.

Awkward silence filled the car as the elevator descended until I blurted, "I'm going back to Toronto."

"You are not leaving until it's safe," Buscetta said through clenched teeth. "And that is the last I want to hear about it, capisce?"

Then the doors opened and he bolted through them, walking briskly into the lobby. Zani put a hand at the small of my back and led me out through the front entrance.

"Get in," Zani instructed, gesturing to a sedan parked on the street. I could see Buscetta's bulk in the driver's seat.

"That's not necessary. I'll find a hotel." Shoot, I didn't have any money. Could I get my sisters to reserve a room for me without explaining why I was in Palermo?

Ugh. Probably not.

"You have nowhere to go." Zani gently guided me toward the car. "And it isn't safe for you to be alone here. Come, Emma. Let's, the three of us, figure this out together."

I didn't see the point in arguing. I hadn't slept in more than twenty-four hours and all I had to eat today was an orange. At least Zani was coming with me. He seemed more friendly and reasonable than Buscetta. "Fine, but this is only because I'm too exhausted to fight you."

Zani opened the back door of the car for me and I slid inside. Buscetta stared straight ahead, his fingers tapping impatiently on the steering wheel. His knuckles were still bleeding. I stared at his large hands, remembering what he did upstairs. I didn't think I'd ever forget it.

When Zani got in and shut the door, Buscetta hit the gas and the car shot away from the curb. I quickly buckled myself in, then gripped the leather seat underneath me as the car swerved and jerked in the Palermo traffic. "Can you slow down, please? More than a million people die each year in traffic accidents."

Buscetta said nothing, but Zani spoke up. "You have to deal with this, Mo. Are you willing to lose everything? Are you willing to start a war? Lose your life? Her life?"

Buscetta merely changed lanes, so I answered for us both. "I don't need to stay here. We're married. That's enough."

"I heard what Virga said," Zani said. "It's not enough-and you both know it."

A baby.

I swallowed the panic threatening in my chest. Then I remembered who I was, who I was related to. "Listen, you only need to involve my brothers-in-law. They'll put a stop to this and set Virga straight."

Buscetta didn't answer, but his shoulders remained tight as he maneuvered the car through traffic.

Zani's response was patient, but firm. "Signora, both Ravazzani and D'Agostino-as well as your father-answer to Don Borghese, who is in agreement with Virga. Unless we want a full-scale war, we must abide by the decisions of our leaders."

This was what Virga said back in Toronto. That, and that he would kill my father.

"Minchia!" Buscetta shouted and slapped the steering wheel with his palm. Then he took a sharp turn, throwing all of us sideways.

"It won't be so bad," Zani said.

Buscetta snarled something in Sicilian, and I only caught the words "scared" and "my dick." Was he talking about me? Was he saying I would be scared of his dick? I really needed to learn the dialect down here.

I knew I wasn't sexy or desirable. Men never noticed me like they noticed my sisters. And I was fine with that. I wasn't trying to impress anyone. Getting into a good medical school and completing my residency required all of my focus.

That, and taking care of my dying father. Which was why I needed to be in Toronto, not here.

"Please, Don Buscetta," I said. "It's important that I get back to Toronto. Just drive me to the airport."

"I'm not taking you to the airport." His voice was rough gravel.

"Why not?"

"You know why."

"No, I really don't. This makes no sense. You're acting as if we don't have a choice in what's happening."

"Because we don't. Not at the moment anyway."

"Mo, whatever you are thinking," Zani warned in the front seat, "don't do it. Accept this and don't fight him."

I caught the flash of a grim smile on Buscetta's face. "But I love a good fight."