Page 13

Mariano

I t seemed like, after the fog lifted from around Brando Fausti, causing me to see him in an entirely different light, it brought me deeper into it. I was focused on finding Iggy, that was clear enough—find and destroy—but when it came to matters of the heart, I was still so fucking lost.

I hadn’t had direct contact with Sistine since the day she’d shot at Iggy in Venice, so I wasn’t sure if the fog was because of that, or because I’d never felt the way I was feeling about anyone before.

The only clear thoughts were to keep her safe and get back to her.

We had unfinished fucking business. But I refused to allow myself near her.

I wasn’t sure what Iggy’s intentions were as far as me.

Because what happened that day in Venice complicated things.

Sistine taking a shot at him should’ve made him livid. Out for blood.

Instead, it made him curious about her. Maybe even obsessed. He seemed to like his women feisty. Enough that the shot had turned him on.

Adone had contacted me after that day. Said we had a situation that was quickly growing as odd as it was concerning. Sistine started to receive love letters at work. They were written in Russian, then translated into Italian. The poems were written in English.

I’d suspected something when Sistine had shot him. That suspicion turned out to be attraction. Iggy was acting on it.

Still. I’d been keeping my distance. If Iggy suspected I’d die for Sistine, kill for her, he’d know I had a vulnerable spot. That might take precedence over whatever feelings he was having.

Fuck him.

One step too close and he’d be walking into a trap. Not only did Adone have extra security surrounding Sistine, but my men as well. They blended into the scenery but were keeping a vigilant eye on the situation.

It killed me that I wasn’t the man always close to her, but it was better if I wasn’t seen close to her at all.

I stuck to the shadows, keeping as close to her as I could.

She never found me in the crowds, in the darkened corners, but I had a feeling she knew I was there. She scented me through the air.

When she’d stop, look around, and not find me, her shoulders would sag, and she’d take a deep breath. She’d had the same reaction when I’d come inside the jewelry store, but it was always relief when she found me, closely followed by disgust.

On my end, I was walking around with a sickness.

What mamma called the “love lumps.” I was as testy as Zio Romeo had been over his silver strand of hair.

My heart felt like it was in a trap it couldn’t figure a way out of.

If something didn’t give soon, I might just chew something valuable off to be set free.

Zio Romeo’s words from before the battle came back to haunt me. What he’d said about his time away from Zia Juliette. I was already regretting the time spent apart from the woman who held my heart hostage in Venice.

If I regretted the empty moments in the present, what would the feeling be like in the future?

I wasn’t a man to harbor regrets. My family.

Myself. We were proactive about not having them.

What we did in life, we did in purpose. In honor.

I wasn’t Matteo when it came to family obligations, but I was still a Fausti and valued our ways.

No fucking regrets—that was one of our ways.

We only spoke the truth. We were honorable with our words, intentions, and actions. And we stood on our decisions. The foundations of our lives.

A sigh escaped from my lips, and I adjusted the cap on my head, wiping a hand over my forehead, drying the sweat.

Yeah, it was already summertime. It would’ve been natural to blame the sweat on the heat, but I knew better.

I was jonesing for a hit of the woman who had become a religious experience for me.

I was following her.

Rio had put a tracking device inside her earbud.

It was the only thing she kept with her all the time.

He placed an order for jewelry for my sister, and when he went to pick it up, he asked for something he knew Adone would have a hard time finding.

Sistine took care of all the inventory—something Adone didn’t seem interested in anymore since he was on the verge of retirement.

As expected, Adone called Sistine, and it was by sheer luck she left one earbud on her desk.

Rio was fast enough to replace her original earbud with the one with the tracker.

Later, I’d get one put in a piece of jewelry I’d gift her with.

A fucking claim. But the earbud worked for the time being.

Sistine had no fucking clue I was right behind her after she left Venice.

My men and men who belonged to her family rode on the water taxi with her.

I was getting minute by minute updates while I drove.

I even knew what she was wearing (a flirty black dress and cowboy boots), how she styled her hair (in a long braid), and what she carried with her (a backpack, no purse).

A few times, she stopped in her tracks, held the Annie pendant in her grasp, and waited for me to appear.

When I didn’t, she was off again, but this time, it wasn’t disappointment I found on her face and felt in my chest.

It was almost relief.

I was curious about where she was going before.

Her reaction made me almost crazed with it.

Her grandfather told me he knew she was up to something, one of those times her convictions and decisions were getting in the way of orders, and her grandfather wanted to let me know that Sistine was on the move.

Flavio, Sistine’s father, was extremely displeased with our (Fausti) involvement in their personal affairs, but Adone had convinced him that, this time, it was for the better.

They had never been faced with an enemy that had found something personal in one of their own.

Especially a daughter or granddaughter. Flavio reluctantly agreed, but he was still on edge about the situation with me.

I had a feeling Capri’s feelings in all of this were also causing strain. I knew how volatile a relationship between two sisters could be. Mamma and her sister, Charlotte, never got along. Still didn’t.

Marciano elbowed me in the ribs. We were all unusually strong, but even Marciano’s elbows could be considered a fucking weapon.

They felt as sharp as shanks made from bones.

“Wherever she’s going, she’s going casual, brother.

Country chic with a hippie twist.” He traced the point of his chin.

“Or, perhaps, motherfucking rural bohemian.”

Everyone grew quiet in the car. Along with Marciano, Remo and Angelo were along for the ride. Marciano didn’t even notice we were all staring at him. After he’d spoken up about what Sistine was wearing, and how casual it was, he’d picked up his word search puzzle and got back to work.

Prozio (Great-Uncle) Tito and Nonno had gotten him hooked on word search and crossword puzzles when he was young. He’d get tongue-tied sometimes. The puzzles helped. He’d been addicted ever since, and no fucking joke, the muscles in his mind were stronger than his physical muscles.

Marciano glanced up, down, then his eyes swung up again. His eyes narrowed as if he was saying, what the fuck, why are you m’fers looking at me that way.

“When did you begin to have an interest in women’s clothing styles, cugino ?” Angelo asked. He was trying not to grin. He wanted to keep his head on straight.

If Marciano felt Angelo was mocking him or making fun in any way, he’d challenge him to a few rounds in the ring.

Even though the men in our family wouldn’t back down, Marciano was one of the fiercest in our family when it came time to step into the ring.

He was named after Rocky Marciano, the famous Italian boxer.

He was allowed to box with us, but not with regular men, unless he received permission to use his fists as weapons.

It might take us five seconds to choke a man out, but three for him.

Marciano looked at me instead of Angelo and shrugged. “It’s an art form. A way of publicly declaring style. I’m learning the fucking lingo.”

Ahh. He was interested in Sicilia Alliata.

The designer whose family ran two of the largest design houses in the world.

Marciano was a curious motherfucker by nature—obscure facts and words were his jam—but this time, his interest in fashion had direct roots to the woman who brought together the two massive fashion brands.

Angelo bobbed his head. “I am down with this.”

“Fucking A,” Marciano said. Then he started a discussion about it.

I sighed and let them fill the empty space. Remo was quiet too. He was a lot like his old man, but not as flirty.

“I have been interested in photography,” Remo said with a quiet rasp.

“What kind of photography do you prefer?” Angelo asked after a slight pause.

Remo cleared his throat. “Portraits.”

Everyone grew quiet again.

Remo was the son of Vincenzo, and Vincenzo was one of the most dangerous trackers and hunters in the family.

He was a trained detective, but instead of only finding the person, he also killed them on command.

If he was on the hunt, the other side begged not to be found.

The only man who had ever been lost to him was Olivier Nemours.

My mamma’s enemy had alluded so many for so long.

He was like a rat in the sewers. He could fold his bones in to fit where most men refused to go.

Remo was following in his old man’s footsteps. He had the personality for it. But his admission showed a different side to him.

“Huh,” I said.

Marciano laughed. It was as raspy and quiet as Remo had been. My eyes met his.

He shrugged, setting his puzzle down. “You sound just like Papà when you do that.” He cleared his throat. “ Huh .”

“He’s my old man,” I said.

“No fucking doubt.”