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I took my hat off and held it over my chest. Maybe it would stop my traitorous heart from fucking flying out of my chest and directly to hers. Though I couldn’t even blame my heart for the double cross. She was that fucking sweet.

“You called me,” I said.

Her mouth opened and closed. “It was a mistake.”

“Was it?” I lifted my eyebrow at her.

“Yes! I was working late and realized…I wasn’t sure about the design, so I was just checking to make sure you were okay with the change.”

“You were in control of the design,” I said. “I had no clue what it was going to turn into. So, there was no reason to update me on any change. I wouldn’t have been any wiser if you made it.”

She stared at me and then scrunched up her face again before she sighed. “What do you want, Casanova Prince?”

“You tell me.”

She held the clipboard closer to her chest and lifted her chin.

“Your jewelry. It is done. However, you owe me. I want my clip back. My clip for your necklace. Since—” she motioned to me with her hand wildly “—you clearly made it out alive from whatever battle you spoke of.” Her eyes refused to hold my stare, and when they ran down my body, they stilled on my ribs. “You are bleeding.”

I glanced down. A bloom of red had made it to the white fabric. The popped stitch. I shrugged. “One of my sutures popped when you flung the hammer at me.”

Her eyes widened. She tucked a wild strand of hair behind her ear, clearly disturbed. I wondered how long it had taken for it to sneak out of the tight bun that wasn’t all that tight anymore. It was lax, resting against the nape of her neck. “You scared me.”

There it was. The truth of the matter.

She fucking scared me too.

“Tell me, do I scare you, Sistine.” I was never afraid of the truth. I lived by it. But I knew she was. It would take time for this…thing between us to step into the light.

She blinked at the blood stain and then met my eyes. Her head went back, like my words came in late and pissed her off. “You scared me, Signor Fausti, because I had no idea you were coming.”

Another roundabout truth.

“I mean—” She stopped herself from rambling. She knew where I was going with this but was refusing to join me. “You know what I mean! Let me grab your piece so that you can take care of…” She motioned to my wounded area.

She went to fly past me, but I refused to let her. I took her arm in my hand. I could snap her bones like a predator could a fragile bird’s bones. But this monster would rather cut his own heart out before he hurt her in any way.

She looked up at me, and I looked down at her. I could get lost in those eyes—live a thousand lives in them, from groves to beaches.

“Tell me the story of those boots,” I said, my hand full of an energy I had never felt before. It was moving through my body like lightning, making my heart rumble like thunder.

She blinked at me. I’d surprised her again. “They are just boots,” she barely got out.

“Worn-down boots always have a story,” I said. “Like cowboys never tell a lie.”

“Neither do Faustis,” she breathed.

I nodded.

Our eyes held, and this time it seemed like she couldn’t move her stare.

We were both caught up in whatever was moving between us.

It wouldn’t allow us to pull away. It was fucking magnetic.

And a low growl vibrated in my throat again.

It was that lion in my chest making the claim.

He had made it the first time I’d seen her, but this time, he was letting her know.

She is his.

He is hers .

“Sistine!” Adone called from the front of the store.

Her grandfather’s voice broke around us, but neither of us budged. Not until he came to stand behind me and ordered her back to her post.

“I have to go,” she whispered. “My grandfather knows where your necklace is.” She looked at my hand on her arm. “Release me,” she said in Italian.

Never was on the tip of my tongue, but to prove a point, I let my hand linger on her for a moment before I released her. I demanded the warmth of my touch to linger on her skin after we parted. I demanded it brand her. Tattoo my mark beneath her skin.

She moved past me, but her body had to touch mine. She sighed out a trembling breath as she did, fixing her hair again.

“My office,” Adone said, pretending I needed the reminder. “I have your piece waiting on my desk.”

“Tell me,” I ordered in Italian, “who is left in this building.”

He rattled off names. “If you are worried about my granddaughter listening in on our private conversation, she will not. She keeps to herself.”

I almost grinned at that. He knew his granddaughter, but not as well as I did already.

There was no doubt she was going to stand outside of his door, listening in.

I invited her to. I expected it. Her sister was another personality all together.

I would have sent her home if Adone hadn’t.

She had no stake in this situation, and he knew she would have eavesdropped.

Adone invited me inside his office and closed the door behind me. I waited for him to take his position behind his desk and offer me a seat out of respect. He offered me the seat and a drink. I accepted the chair but declined the drink. My blood was already thin, and I didn’t want it to run harder.

Our conversation took place in Italian.

He sighed. “I take it this is not a business meeting.”

“Correct,” I said.

He sighed even harder and rose to his feet. “You are sure about the drink?”

I held a hand up, meaning, I am .

“Do you mind?” He nodded to his small bar.

“Go ahead,” I said.

He got up, turning his back on me, and for some reason, his appearance captured my attention. Compared to my grandfather, this man reminded me of a cartoon grandfather. He had white hair and a thin face, and his back was crooked. His hands were gnarled from arthritis. Maybe from his line of work.

My grandfather’s back was as stiff as a board, and his skin was taut against his muscles. Luca Leone Fausti could walk through a hail of bullets and make it to the other side unscathed, age be damned.

It wasn’t a contrast that threw me often, but when it happened, I realized how different the Faustis were from the rest of the world.

Adone almost fell into his swivel seat with wheels. When he breathed out, I smelled the drink he’d just taken on his breath.

“Respectfully, tell me how serious your family is about the law that no Fausti can marry a Capella,” I said.

Adone sighed. Longer this time. “Depends on who is leading the family—on our side. We have a similar hierarchy as the Fausti family, as far as who leads the business. My son, Flavio, is set to take over the business at the start of the new year. He’s on vacation with his wife.

They enjoy skiing at this time of the year.

“We have not had a situation come up—except for once. My daughter. I was against it. It did not happen. However, per the laws of our family, if a man is interested in marrying one of our women, we are to say no, but if the man would feel secure enough to challenge fate…” He shrugged.

“Who are we, as mere mortals, to challenge something that is greater than any man?”

“Ah,” I said. “Challenge fate. The ring.”

“Yes, the ring. However, I will note. Capri can be very persuasive when she wants something.” He winked at me. “Perhaps my son will be lenient and favorable toward the match.”

“Capri,” I repeated, then grinned.

We both knew I wasn’t there for Capri. The old man was attempting to goad me.

He took another swig of his drink, and his eyes moved down my body. They widened when they came to my ribs. He stood so fast his chair flew back. “You have a fresh wound.”

I waved a hand. “A suture popped.”

“We must stop the bleeding.”

I watched as he moved around his office to an antique cabinet in the corner. He opened it and pulled out a plastic box with medical supplies. He set it on the desk.

“Your uncle, Tito, who I have great respect for, taught me basic medical procedures. I can fix the suture.”

I stood from my seat and removed my shirt.

He whistled when he examined the damage.

He cleaned his hands with alcohol and then started threading the needle.

I hadn’t taken into consideration how thick his glasses were.

He was pinching his face and moving it forward and backwards, like he could see, but better from different positions.

“It seems more than one has come undone. I will fix them all. My wife was a better seamstress, but I work in a pinch.” He licked his lips.

“I cannot allow our patrons to leave wounded. Your family would not appreciate this. As we would not appreciate one of our own being ignored when wounded.” He looked at me, a few droplets of sweat sliding down his face. “This should not hurt.”

“Not a bit,” I said, and took a breath as he patched me up.

My skin was sore, and sweat dripped down my face and neck, but pain was background noise to me.

As he discovered a rhythm, he told me that being a jeweler for the Fausti family was dangerous business, which was why the great Tito Sala had taught him basics when it came to patching people up.

The jewelry family had security for a reason, and they were all trained to use weapons, as far back as our family, which meant that sword fighting had been a thing for them too.

Some of the Fausti family’s treasures were priceless.

Like everything in life that was, some people wanted it for their own gain, or for the challenge.

Or both. That meant the Cappello business could become a highly sought-out mark.

Once the sutures were back in place, the bleeding slowed, he wiped the area with alcohol again. He went back to the cabinet and handed me a different shirt—the same style as mine.

He read the question on my face—the lift of my eyebrows.

He shrugged. “We prepare for all contingencies. Most of the men in the Fausti family are of similar build.”

His comment made it seem like we were all carbon copies of each other.

When I considered it, I had to agree. There was always something that connected one Fausti to another Fausti.

Deeper than the tattoos that marked us. We all had the same inked insignia.

A lion with a sacred heart, a rosary around his neck, was somewhere on our bodies, forever marking us as belonging.

A buzzing sound echoed inside of the office. It would have been an obnoxious noise if, in that moment, it didn’t send a different message. Possible danger.

Adone glanced at me before he picked up the phone and spoke to someone in the front. One of the men from the other family was back, from what I understood. Adone stared into the distance before another noise went off. This one was different.

“Something is wrong,” he said, confirming what I thought.

As he grabbed for the gun probably strapped underneath his desk, I was already out the door.

Sistine was almost at the front of the store.

I took her by the shoulders and turned her around.

Her eyes raked over my bare chest before doing a double take on the damage from the fight in Paris at Sub Rosa.

“Trouble,” she said. “The alert went off throughout the store.”

Adone rushed out, holding his gun. “Giovanni, who was just here with his family to pick up an order, attempted to come back in, but he is being forced. A gun is being held to his head.” Adone described the man holding the gun.

Iggy.

A clerk came from somewhere in the store. “The man with the gun is sending a message,” he said.

“A message?” Adone asked.

The clerk nodded. “He is doing this.” He held up his hand, brought all fingers down except for the middle one. “With his free hand.”

All right. Iggy was getting creative and fucking around with me.

Another clerk rushed out of wherever they were watching the footage. “He shot Giovanni in the foot, then took off into the crowd!”

Remo and I looked at each other, then rushed outside. We were both dodging around people, the men we’d brought along doing the same. We attempted to follow the chaos, the people moving out of Iggy’s way. It wasn’t long before we scattered, going in different directions, trying to corner him.

After a few minutes, though, it felt useless. The crowds were too thick, and he’d had a head start. Our men might get him before he left Venice, but I knew men like him. He had “hard to kill” written all over him. He was a rat, just like Nemours.

“Fuck.” I set my hands on my hips.

The crowd broke around me, the steady stream all staring at me. I’d run out without a shirt. My skin was on fire where the new sutures kept me together, not to mention the hundreds of other ones I had, even where the fucker had sliced me underneath my arms.

A gunshot blasted.

The crowd screamed and hit the ground.

Only two people were standing when the metaphorical smoke cleared.

Me.

Iggy.

He was pointing his gun at me.

I expected a smile.

A taunting laugh.

What I found on his face was shock, quickly followed by anger, then by something I’d figure out later was far worse than anger.

His eyes widened.

He turned to run.

A blast echoed through the air.

From behind me.

He stumbled a bit.

Whoever was behind me had hit his shoulder, only because he was a moving target, weaving further through foot traffic that hadn’t realized what was going on yet.

Whoever was behind me was being careful.

They’d gotten a damn good hit in, though.

He was struck right before the gun could put anyone in danger.

I turned to find Sistine behind me.

Holding the gun.