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The same as Mariano’s parents. I could not see Brando Fausti without his wife, as I could not see Scarlett Fausti without her husband.

It made no sense to me.

None.

Just as his grandparents made no sense without each other.

I realized then just how powerful the matches were in the family, and I also realized, perhaps, the cause. The men. If it was the type of relationship Mariano and I shared, the connection, they would fight to the death for it, as would the women, even if in different ways.

The men shielded the body, and the women…armored the soul. It felt ancient, how the Fausti men treated their women, but at the same time, new and tailored to fit the woman they vowed their lives to for the rest of their lives.

I could not see Mariano Fausti without his wife, and I could not see Sistine Fausti without her husband.

My phone rang, and it startled me out of my reflections. Atta. I sighed.

An executive, as she called her, at some big-name recording studio wanted to sign my husband, and the only way to the core of the Fausti family was through another core family member.

Since my cousin was married to my husband’s cousin, this executive went through Atta.

When I had asked Mariano, he gave a stiff shake of the head, and that was that.

I would call my cousin back later, when my heart did not feel so heavy, since I was not sure if this was what she was calling about again.

Mariano turned into his grandparents’ drive.

It was long, surrounded by oak trees swaying with the strong wind.

At the end of the drive was a large, stately home.

With the dreariness of the day, it almost seemed…

cold, though it was bright white. Mariano parked behind other cars that had already arrived.

When he opened my door, a whoosh of humid air invaded the cabin of the car.

It seemed to cling to the cold air from the air conditioning, and the frigid air clung to me.

I was not sure why I felt as if I was chilled to the bone, but I was.

Mariano touched my face and shook his head.

He took off his jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders, and I used one hand to keep it secure, the other to hold on to my husband.

We stared at each other.

No words.

Only feelings.

It seemed as if his feelings were rushing him as fast and as hard as mine were rushing through me. My heart pounded in my chest as if it was going to explode out of it, attempting to get to his.

When he leaned in, I thought perhaps he was going to kiss me, but his forehead ran down my throat, chest, and rested against my stomach, his massive hands cradling my hips. I ran my hands through his hair, closing my eyes, and we both seemed to sigh at the same time.

More cars started to arrive.

We sighed again, and it seemed as if we were both giving consent to allow the moment to stretch but not fade. We would reclaim it when the time was right. He lifted to his full height, and I fixed his hair, keeping one hand on his jacket as we made our way toward the house, hand in hand.

No matter what was happening around these men, war or romance, death or a wedding, they held themselves as if they were the strongest force in the room. I could feel the power my husband radiated through touch alone. He would be strong for his mamma. The same way he was always strong for me.

Voices were hushed in the house as a woman came to take the jacket from me. I thanked her but declined. The house felt colder than the car.

What happened after was a long, lingering reception that almost felt…dull without the booming voice of Mariano’s grandfather. It was a stark reminder of who Gramps had been in life, and the void he had left behind.

By the end of the evening, it was almost a relief that it was over. I was weighed down by the heaviness of the day.

The storm was growing meaner outside, only adding to the morose feel. I had come to terms with my fear of them, and by the time we slipped into a guest bedroom at his grandparents’ house, my eyes had closed a second before my head hit the pillow.

It was not a good sleep.

It was fraught with nightmares. It was a continual barrage of them, broken by fractures of light that seemed to take me to the next one, somehow all different but linked.

The last one scared me more than it should.

My husband with another woman. Or women.

He was leaving me, that I was sure of. I felt the betrayal and anger—anger fueled by the fear of living a life without him. By him choosing someone else over me.

The body’s face continually changed—women I knew and women I did not.

My eyes opened, the residual feelings inside storming. I could not help feeling angry still, as if the great betrayal had not occurred yet, but somehow it had.

Perhaps this dream was from pent-up feelings about his past, the book he had shown me with all the numbers…

My hand shot out to hit him, and it did, right over his heart. However, in my haste to lash out, I did not realize his hand was holding mine. He set a warm kiss over my pulse, then gave me back my hand and sat up.

My husband scrubbed a hand down his face, and then his fingers slid though his hair. It usually gave a hint to his mood. If it was mussed, he was on the fence between wild and calm. If it was wild…so was he.

However, there were times when his hair was proper, and I knew he was holding back. All that untamed wildness was swirling inside of him, creating an eddy that would suck anyone who dared to get close to him under.

In that moment, his hair was as impeccable as it was when he had first rested next to me—he was controlling whatever emotions swirled inside of him.

He had not slept, which I could tell as well.

Mariano needed little sleep to function.

At times he would only close his eyes, and seconds later, it seemed that his body ruled him to move.

I felt tired watching him, at times, and I was no sloth.

He stared out the window. The rain had slowed to constant patters tapping against the panes. The storm might have broken outside, but it had begun to rage inside of me the moment the dream began.

He sighed, stood, and went to the bathroom. I could hear him using the toilet, a constant stream, and when he walked out, he was dressed in a white t-shirt and grigio, grey , sweatpants. He stood over me for a few breaths, before he turned and walked out the door shutting it quietly behind him.

“ Wha —” I barely got out.

He was leaving me, il traditore !

I did not care if I was in a thin cotton pajama dress or not. Barefoot or not. My hair a wild halo around my head or not. I shot up, ignoring the needs of my bladder, and went after him.

A deep gasp that stuck in my throat almost had me choking when a strong arm shot out of the darkness and wrapped around my stomach, hauling me toward a hard chest. His heart beat against my back as if the heart was the stick and my back the drum.

My fingers clawed against the iron bar, attempting to dislodge it, but it was no use.

“Release me at once!” I whispered.

“These steps are steep, Annie,” my husband said, his voice as dark and quiet as the massive house. “Still yourself until we get outside.” He carried me down the steps easily. As smoothly as if he was walking across a flat surface.

I huffed at him.

He was so…good at everything! It was almost unnatural.

His looks.

His strength.

His ability to love.

His ability to be as cold as steel, yet still be able to care for me.

His…ability to stay on his feet while the world felt as if it was turning upside down, going off the rails.

I turned my face some and growled at him.

He set me on my feet at the end of the steps, and I rocked for a second before I realized he was walking out the door.

He shut it quietly, and my eyes caught on a pair of red stivali da pioggia , ah, rain boots .

I stuffed my feet into them as fast as I could.

I took a step forward and stopped. The boots were clunky and loud.

I felt clownish as I ran behind him, my footfalls loud and squeaking against the soaked ground.

He was right up ahead. He had stopped before I even called his name.

“Mariano!” I whispered.

He turned toward me.

We faced off as a warm, fine mist seemed to cling to us.

“You left me,” I accused.

He shrugged. “Felt like going for a run.”

“It is past midnight.”

He shrugged.

“For another woman,” I rasped out. “You left me for another woman.”

“Fuck if I did.” His eyes narrowed.

“In my dream,” I said. “Not just one woman. A gaggle of women.”

“A gaggle of women.”

“Yes.” I nodded, my hands turning into fists. “A gaggle of horny women.”

He noticed. He spoke in Italian. “Put your weapons away, my wife. No need for them. You.” He nodded at me. “You wounded me. You carved my heart out. Set it before an enemy. You didn’t even fucking tell me.” He hit his heart.

“Correct, I did not tell.” I lifted my chin. “At the time, life was…going in ways I did not expect. The maze was to prove?—”

“Fuck the test mere people made to prove something to everyone but us. We know. So, fuck everyone who needed proof. I need no proof. All I need is the truth. I fucking have it. I’ve had it since the moment we met. I thought that was all you needed too.”

“I did not need the proof either. I knew it the moment our eyes met for the first time as well.

Your heart is not the only one who speaks to you.

Mine is loud as well. Or I would not have gambled with your life, Mariano Fausti, by going through with any test. If I was not one hundred percent sure of what exists between us, I would not have agreed.

I would have walked away from you rather than lose the one person on this earth who was meant for me .