Mercenary (Gangsters of New York #3) - Bella Di Corte Page 0,20

kill me to do it,” I said, my voice firm and unwavering. “You should have let the vipera get me.”

His grip on my arm turned almost painful, but I let it flow through me. Nothing could compare to the thought of living a life with the bull and his famiglia. “I would hurt or kill myself before I give you up,” he said.

My head turned slowly, our eyes meeting. “Why?” I whispered.

He turned away from me, nodding toward the road. He wanted me to drive. I looked in my rearview mirror and noticed a car behind me. Nicodemo was in the driver’s seat, and Uncle Tito sat next to him. The two men who came with Corrado—the American who looked like a chipmunk and the Italian with the never-ending serious look on his face—were in the backseat.

“I gave myself up to you,” he said, his face still forward. “That’s all the assurance you need that my word is good, but if not …” He glanced in the mirror.

I had my answer. He knew I trusted Nicodemo and Uncle Tito.

“Your sister sent them,” he said.

Ah, yes, she was looking out for me. The moment I saw lo scorpione, my mind started floating in the clouds, not grounded by reality, and she knew that.

I started the van, and we drove in silence for over an hour. It was only two from Bronte to Modica.

“Tell me why you did it,” he said.

I glanced at him. He was staring at my face. He had been doing that periodically during the drive, but since I did not meet his eyes, it did not bother me as much.

“I have done many things,” I said. “Just this morning—too many to count.”

“Why you cut his balls off.”

My hands strangled the steering wheel. “How much do you know about me?” I said.

“Enough,” he said. “But not nearly enough.”

I nodded. “I was born in Forza d’Agrò, where most of my famiglia still live, but when I was eight and Anna was six, our papà took us to America to find better opportunities. He got a job with a fruit market, and we lived with his brother and wife, with a few cousins, until we were able to afford an apartment of our own. Mamma got a job working at the same place.”

A car swerved in front of me and I lifted my hand, yelling at the driver, before I shook my head and continued.

“We lived in New York for eight years before we got a call that our nonna was sick. Mamma had been homesick for a while. She wanted to go back. We did. After nonna died, papà and mamma took over the restaurant. We ran it as a famiglia.

“One day an American man came in with some men, and he noticed me. He came every day for a week, using the little Sicilian he had to speak to me. He was nice enough, at first, but there was nothing about him that drew my eye. The more he came in, the more I kept my distance.”

Mamma started to take his order instead, but he would get impatient and demand that I serve him. Then one day he went to papà and said that he knew how things were done in Italy, and he wanted to marry me. Papà told him no.” I sighed.

“No is usually a universal word, but he could not understand it. He pushed and pushed. Then one day when I was walking home, he said that I had to marry him, or his famiglia in America would come after mine. I was young and scared and agreed to it. He did not want me to tell papà and mamma until after.”

“You’re still married to him,” he said.

I shook my head. “I was never married to the bull.” I ran a hand along my neck, leaving it in the crook. “He was not fluent in Sicilian or Italian, and I told the priest that he was forcing me. That his famiglia in America were powerful. I asked him not to truly bind me to him, as a mercy. I would have to give my body, but I refused anything else.”

I glanced at lo scorpione, and his eyes moved me to finish.

“The bull does not ask. He steals. And he hurt me. He beat me…when I said I was not ready for him.” I swallowed down acid in my throat at the thought of him. “He behaves like an animal, so he was treated as one. The