Married to the mafia King

The local police arrived almost immediately but as soon as they heard what had happened, they called Florence. No one else was qualified to investigate such a brazen assassination.

The detective who showed up two hours later, though, seemed bored. Perhaps he felt that a killing in the middle of nowhere was beneath him.

He asked me what had happened. I told him everything, but said that I had only seen a man in a black trench coat and hat that I hadn’t seen his face.

After I finished speaking, Papa gave me an encouraging smile.

I felt guilty for lying, but I persuaded myself that it was more important to obey my father.

The detective searched the ugly man’s clothes and found a pistol in his jacket pocket.

So he had been scrambling for a gun when the blond stranger had shot him…

The detective ordered the local ambulance to take the body away. Then he had the man’s car towed back to Florence.

It was nearly 11 o’clock at night when they all departed… and I was left with the horrible task of cleaning up the blood on the stone floor.

“I’ll help you,” my father said quietly, and went to the kitchen to get buckets and brushes.

While he was gone, I heard the door open behind me.

I thought it was one of the police returning, so I wasn’t afraid.

But I became afraid as soon I turned around.

Three men stood by the doorway.

All three were relatively young in their mid- to late 20s.

All three wore expensive dress suits, and all three were incredibly handsome in their own way.

Their features were close enough that they seemed to be related

That was where the similarities ended.

To the left was a mountain of a man at least 200 centimeters, or 6’6″ for you Americans. He had massively broad shoulders and enormous muscles beneath his dark suit. He reminded me of a circus strongman from old black-and-white movies. He had a full head of brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard. I thought of him as an orso a bear. Despite his imposing size, his warm brown eyes were kind.

To the right was a shorter man, though he still stood at least 6’2″. His hair was dark brown and slightly curled, his face had just a bit of scruff, and he wore a flashy blue suit with a silk shirt. He was trim and muscular.

Though not nearly as big as the Bear, he was more threatening. His handsome face was furious, as though someone had insulted him, and he scowled like he wanted to kill me.

I immediately thought of him as the Hothead.

But he was not the most frightening… or the most handsome.

That was the man in the center.

He was in the middle as far as height about 6’4″ but his shoulders were almost as broad as the Bear’s.

His jet-black hair was swept back from his face, and he wore a short black beard trimmed to perfection.

His cheekbones were like a fashion model’s. Piercing black eyes stared out from under his furrowed brow.

He wore a navy blue suit with a light blue shirt open at the throat. I could see tattoos at the top of his chest, extending up his neck.

He appeared to be the oldest of the group, possibly close to 30.

The thing that stood out about him other than his devastatingly good looks was the sense of authority that emanated from him. The other two men seemed to be his subordinates.

The Bear looked threatening because of his size…

And the Hothead looked unsafe because of his anger…

But the man in the middle was mysterious and calm… and that made him all the more dangerous.

Not to mention that he stared at me like a hawk looking at a baby rabbit.

I stared back at him, my mouth slightly agape.

Then he smiled the tiniest bit… just a slight upturning of the corner of his mouth…

And my heart skipped a beat.

“I understand something happened here tonight,” he said in a deep, smoky voice.

I swallowed hard and nodded, unable to speak.

I felt like I was drowning in his eyes and then his voice mesmerized me even further.

Just at that moment, my father emerged from the kitchen. “Excuse me, we’re clo ”

But the words died in his throat when he saw the three men.

Actually, when he saw the man in the middle.

The handsome stranger looked at him. “Do you know who I am?”

“O-of course, Don Rosolini.”

As soon as Papa said the name, my blood froze in my veins.

Don Rosolini.

Il Mostro.

The Monster.

The Rosolinis were a family of mafiosos, and they had controlled this region of Tuscany for over 50 years. The grandfather had come from Sicily half a century before and staked out his claim with blood and fire.

The name inspired fear. No one crossed the Rosolinis no one.

Those who did either lived to regret it… or disappeared without a trace.

The head of the family was often referred to as il Mostro for his horrendous acts of violence against his enemies. The don did not hurt innocent local folk, who fell under his protection but he destroyed other mafiosos who dared infringe on his territory.

But the name il Mostro was always whispered, as though speaking it might summon the devil himself.

Certainly my father appeared terrified. He trembled slightly as he said, “I was so sorry to hear about your father, God rest his soul.”

…your father?

God rest his soul?

This was news to me.

“Grazie,” the mystery man said. “What’s your name?”

“Enzo Calvano. May I offer you a drink, Don Rosolini?”

“The only thing I need is information. I understand that a man was killed in your establishment earlier tonight.”

“Yes,” my father said as he gestured at the curdled pool of blood on the stones.Content © provided by NôvelDrama.Org.

“Did you see the killer?”

“No,” my father said. “I was in the kitchen.”

Don Rosolini turned his dark eyes to me. “Did your… daughter see him? I assume she is your daughter?”

“Yes,” both my father and I said at once.

The mafioso smiled as he stared into my soul. “Did you see the killer?”

Before I could answer, my father hastily interrupted. “No, she only saw a man in a black jacket and hat.”

The Hothead spoke for the first time. “He asked HER, old man, not y ”

Don Rosolini held up one hand, and the Hothead immediately stopped talking.

The mystery man turned to me. “Well? Did you see him or not?”

I glanced at my father

“Don’t look at him. Look at me,” the mafioso ordered.

I gazed into his eyes, which seemed to pull me into their depths.

“And I warn you,” he continued, “you should always tell me the truth. Because you have no idea what I know… and if I catch you in a lie, the consequences will be very unpleasant. Do you understand?”

I swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“Did you see the killer?”

“…y-yes.”

“What did he look like?”

“He was tall… blond, with a beard… blue eyes. He might have been Swedish.”

I glanced over at my father, who looked absolutely terrified. I wondered if I had done the right thing.

When the don spoke again, his voice was quiet. “Why did you lie to the police?”

I frowned in astonishment. “How did you know that?”

He smiled, and it sent shivers down my spine. “I have friends in the Questura.”

The Questura was the police department based out of Florence.

So the devil had infiltrated law enforcement, as well.

“It was my fault, signore,” my father said in a pleading voice. “She is my only child, and I did not want her to get wrapped up in this… this ”

“Situation?” Don Rosolini finished for him.

“…yes.”