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Mariano

T he woman behind the glass reminded me of a woman in a Renaissance painting.

She was slight, with delicate features, even though she wore a rough-looking leather apron over her clothes.

Her hair reminded me of late summer, light brown with numerous caramel strands, and was pulled back in a low, loose bun.

A few unruly, straight tendrils snuck out from its hold, falling around her face, framing it.

She wore a headpiece that was equipped with a light and a magnifying glass—a tool of her trade. The ribbed, long-sleeved burgundy dress she wore hugged the curves of her body. Beneath the desk she stooped over, I could see weathered cowgirl boots peeking out.

She was so caught up in her work, her art, feline eyes focused, beautiful full lips set into a determined line, that she seemed to be lost in her own world, a picturesque place as serene as the Sistine Chapel.

Her eyes were drawn down to the piece of gold held by her elegant fingers as she created a piece of jewelry.

The sun filtered in through the stained-glass window next to her workstation, painting her in a kaleidoscope of colors as glistening as the gems I assumed she dealt with daily. Ear buds were tucked inside her ears.

The sight of them made me blink, almost jarring me out of the time capsule and back into the current moment.

When I looked at her, I was transported somewhere else entirely. I had become a different man all together, one like Sandro Botticelli the first time his eyes found Simonetta Vespucci. I’d found a gateway to a time and place that was filled with romance, but at the same time, ruthless.

Even the music playing softly in the background of Cappello's Jewelry fit the vibe—it sounded like what Renaissance music would have sounded like, something that would play in church, reminiscent of a heavenly choir.

The colored light haloing her made her glow, even though the cold and dreary day was the total opposite of the warm ardor that seemed attracted to her.

It was easy to imagine one piercing ray of light forcing its way through the thick clouds outside to shine through the stained glass just so it could shed light on this soft creature that deserved to be seen, not just in diamond light, but in many different colors with numerous facets.

She could have been a woman standing next to a window in a jewelry store in Venice, or an otherworldly being in a grotto, the water shimmering around her, whispering the truth— she’s not of this world .

She’d been sent from another time, another place.

She presented a challenge, and the prize was feeling her love and having her devotion.

All in all, it felt like I was having a religious experience as I stared at her. She was my come-to-Jesus moment. I couldn’t move my eyes away from her. Every move she made, mundane or not, seemed to be pulling me closer and closer to her, though my feet hadn’t moved.

She reached up to move a strand of hair out of her face but missed it entirely, then went back to what she was doing. The slight movement made me silently suck in a breath when I thought of how her hand would feel caressing my skin.

My temperature ran hot, and I was willing to bet that she was always cold, as cold as the metal she dealt with.

Even though I couldn’t tell what color her eyes were, because it seemed like she was made entirely from light and colors, I knew her fair skin was translucent enough to see the veins below her surface when she felt chilled.

As if in answer to my thought, she shivered, and her eyes moved to a handheld butane lighter in a holder on her work area.

She could’ve possibly been looking to use it on the design she was working on, but somehow, I knew she was cold.

The old building held a draft, a cold watery smell that reminded me of ancient times trapped inside of the walls.

It would probably take torches or a roaring fire to warm the space.

It was as if my body burned hotter at the thought of the chill touching her skin, my arms suddenly straining, aching, feeling empty, which they never had before.

She reached up again, finally moving the rebellious strand from her face, and stilled for a minute before her eyes slowly rose to meet mine.

Whoever said that two souls colliding would make the world stand still was either a fucking liar or had a different experience from mine.

Nothing stood still for me.

It felt as if my heart resided in the stained-glass window next to her, and in that moment, it exploded, my life shattering around her in a dizzying array of sharp pieces for her to collect and keep.

It felt as if I had been riding Guerriero, my wild Friesian, and his temper got the best of him, making him stop short after racing through the brush just to watch me go flying, soaring over a cliff.

I imagined hitting the ice-cold plunge pool underneath it, getting sucked under, then being released right before my lungs filled with water, then being swept up into its twisting and turning tide, gasping for breath, ready for the moment I could find purchase, and instead being washed up on a shore full of broken glass that would leave scars to be proud of, proof that I’d made it out bleeding but alive, even if barely.

To sum it up, my world was being rocked off its fucking hinges, even if I hadn’t moved from the same spot I’d been standing on since entering the jewelry store.

Neither of us blinked.

Not until one of the workers moved past to let my brothers, Matteo and Marciano, in for our appointment.

It wasn’t even the arrival of the rest of my family that cut through our connection, but another woman, who I assumed was the Renaissance Woman’s sister.

I’d heard Adone, the head metalsmith, call her Capri, his granddaughter.

I wouldn’t have looked away from Renaissance Woman if she hadn’t broken the connection first and looked at who I assumed was her sister.

My eyes flashed back to Renaissance Woman’s a beat too late to respond to the last look she’d given me. She’d narrowed her eyes at me, pinched her lips, and given me a look that clearly could have killed me, or dumped a bucket of slime over my head, which she seemed to feel was what I was made of.

Huh.

I’d never had a woman look at me that way—with such disgust. At least, not until our time was over and I was about to walk out the door.

Then the woman might jump on me, claw me, scream in my ear.

That was normal. I could understand it, even if I made no promises and gave them no reason to be shocked that I was leaving.

But Renaissance Woman’s piercing look was unwarranted.

I’d never even seen her before. Had never spoken to her before.

I would have remembered. Never forgotten it.

Because a simple truth had come at me as hard as Fate’s flying fists to my heart the moment our eyes met.

I’d never be the same.

My arms were still longing, and they seemed to take control of my hand, which went over my heart.

No.

Fucking no.

No.

My old man, the one and only Brando Fausti, pulled that same move in the name of love, so I rebuked it in the name of sanity. I dropped my hand like it had been scalded by the butane lighter on Renaissance’s work area.

If my family had noticed the familiar move, they were not outwardly showing it, though I had a feeling my mamma, the one and only Scarlett Rose Fausti, and my sister, Mia Bellarosa, were keeping their facial expressions in check.

Mamma and my sister were “touched”: they could “feel” other people’s intentions and feelings, usually the ones people kept to themselves.

I wanted to claim I’d been around them long enough that I could bury my feelings deep enough to keep them to myself, but while a connection pulled me toward the Renaissance painting come to life, I had no fucking clue what my feelings had outwardly been doing.

For all I knew, the colors from the stained-glass window could have been coming from me, my feelings playing out in real time around her. The feelings came in a multitude of colors, as confusing as I felt. Not sure which one to concentrate on, except for the one in the center of it all.

Her.

This was an unexpected twist in my story.

Mariano Leone Fausti, who my family called The Casanova Prince, and for good fucking reason.

Women.

The scent of them.

The build of them.

Everything about them.

Soft.

Hard.

Fair.

Dark.

All shapes and colors in between.

I’d always been a man possessed by them.

However, something had pivoted inside me when the Renaissance Painting came into view, met my eyes, and then…gave me a look that no doubt existed somewhere between disgust and murder. All the curiosity and possession inside of me turned and aimed at her.

One breath-taking, pounding pulse I never knew I had was suddenly vital enough to silence the rest.

The rest of the world seemed to come into focus then, and Adone directed our group.

My older brother, Matteo, was the reason we’d all collected in Venice and met up at the jewelry store.

He was on the hunt for an engagement ring for a woman he hadn’t traditionally met yet.

Yeah, it sounded fucking out of bounds, but I knew my brother—my entire family.

When a woman started a connection with a Fausti man, she was it for him.

It.

All he could see.

The only reason he seemed to have air in his lungs and a heart in his chest.

The end.

I shook my head and moved with the crowd—my parents, my sister and her husband, Saverio, all my brothers (Matteo, Marciano, and Maestro), along with all my uncles and their wives, except for the piranha-bird, Rosaria Caffi. She was a fun one, that one.

My eyes were frozen on the Renaissance Painting when Adone introduced her to the crowd—his granddaughter, Sistine Evita Capella.

Wasn’t I just thinking that could be her name? Sistine?