Page 15

Sistine

I was not sure what my father was the angriest at—that a crazed man had killed another man with an arrow because he was obsessed with the idea of me, or that Mariano Fausti had brought me home.

Or maybe it was because my sister was throwing a fit about the Casanova Prince escorting me to the palazzo.

She had accused me of blocking him from getting to her. I was a pity case. Why would he ever look past her for me? Absurd! He felt guilty for going after her when I so clearly had feelings for him. This she said to me when the prince had excused himself from the room to take a call.

“I do not talk to him first.” This from me.

A growl that would scare monsters away. This from the leader of monsters, also known as Capri Capella.

“Sistine!” This from my father. “Stop antagonizing your sister.”

My entire body seized, though I had learned how to conceal it with a neutral stance. I refused to give her a reaction, which drove her crazier than she already was.

I was sitting crossed-legged on the chair in my father’s office, except one leg dangled and swung. An easy sway. I grinned at her.

Capri pointed at me, as if she was pointing out a villain. “She is doing it again!”

What made the situation reach this level of hysteria?

My family had no clue Mariano was going to bring me home.

My sister had not spent hours on her image to prepare for him.

It was late and she had a green mask on her face.

Her eyes had turned cartoonish and almost popped out of her head when she saw him.

I grinned thinking about it. I would never forget it. It would become a core memory. Someone had caused Capri Capella discomfort on my behalf. Even if inadvertently.

When she screeched and ran upstairs, a smile I had never known had appeared on my face. It was warm and satisfying. This was when I realized I preferred retribution served hot.

When she came back down, in record time, she still had green specks left on her face. It was not the right time to point out that her true skin—snake—was showing through. But the thought thrilled me just the same.

At the look on my face, Mariano had lifted his thick eyebrows at me. I only grinned harder and kept my eyes forward. When I finally met his eyes again, he matched my grin.

My sister stomped her foot so hard, it made the ancient wooden slats beneath her feet tremble. Mariano looked at her, and she only shrugged and said, “ Il insetto .” She had blamed her tantrum on a bug .

“Dinner for you,” I said. She was a snake, after all. Perhaps she would save it for later, when Mariano left, and she felt comfortable stuffing her face.

She gave me the meanest look. I only smiled at her.

Mariano reentered the scene and Papà excused us, his daughters, from his office, and invited Mariano to speak to him privately.

“Invited” stretched it a bit. He did not like the involvement of the prince of the Fausti family in our family’s issue.

And from what I could tell, Mariano had placed himself in the center of it and refused to remove himself.

Perhaps because he felt he had brought the crazed man, Iggy as he called him, into my life.

In all fairness, he might have planted the bitter seed, but I was the one who had tried to chop the quick-growing weed down by shooting it, er , him.

What kind of man enjoys getting shot at? Furthermore, what kind of man gets turned on by it? It was not like I was batting my eyelashes at him and waving seductively while I pulled the trigger.

It would be easier to admit I did it to protect our family name. We had clientele who depended on us to protect what they considered valuable. This is true. Perhaps my rapid response was partially due to my job. However, the truth of the matter was:

Mariano Leone Fausti felt valuable to me.

He was smug, conceded, and vain—all the descriptive words to describe someone who thought very highly of themselves (probably because everyone else did as well)—and it was so infuriating, I could wrap my hands around his throat and choke him!

But the oddest thing…I felt as if I was the only one who had the right to do such a thing.

Our doorman knocked on my door. He told me my father wanted to speak to me in his office. My heart, the traitor, fell when I walked in and Mariano was not there.

My father stood behind his desk, his face a mask of exasperation, his palms braced against the mahogany wood.

My father often braced for me when he was about to dictate how my life was going to go.

Most of the time, I took orders without issue.

I worked for the family business, and this was where most of the orders came in.

So I did my job. I was a loyal employee to the jewelry business because I truly loved what I did.

However, at home, when I had my head set on doing something, such as the concert, I demanded my freedom.

My eyes and my father’s eyes locked after I took a seat in the chair again.

This was the only similarity between us I could find.

The color of my eyes. My sister looked more like our mamma than me, but she had more Capella in her.

I resembled… I couldn’t truly find myself in anyone around me.

My grandfather told me that I bore a striking resemblance to my great-grandmother, Cecilia, but I had never seen a photo.

After a falling out between my grandfather and one of his brothers, my grandfather claims the brother stole everything out of my great-grandmother’s palazzo before they could split the inheritance fifty-fifty.

He claimed the brother, the brother’s wife, and their children cleaned out the home before he could get there.

He was too busy grieving his mamma to worry about material things.

The situation left him with no pictures of her.

My grandfather had told me his mamma could be a defiant woman.

My father felt the same about me. Mostly toward the way I acted toward my sister. However, no one took into consideration how she acted toward me first.

I sighed.

“You are going to my sister for the rest of the summer,” my father said bluntly. “We need to deal with the issues you have caused.”

My eyes narrowed against his. “Also, the issue of Capri eating a sour lemon because Mariano Fausti spoke to me.”

“Ah!” the ass-face (my sister) screeched. “Why are you not listening, you leech? You are a pity case for him. He knows you drool over him and does not want to crush your pitiful spirit. We are sisters, unfortunately. He probably believes we are close.”

We both made a disgusted noise at the same time.

“Enough!” my father roared. “It does not matter what my reasons are. You are going.” He checked his watch. “You have an hour.” He eyed me with a narrow-eyed gaze.

He was waiting for my reaction. I was anticipating his interest in it. As always, I schooled my face and nodded, although something inside of me was panicking. I felt rooted to the soil of Italy suddenly and did not want to be ripped from it.

Capri was still watching the scene unfold, a smirk on her face. My father knew allowing her to stay might temper my reaction, if I was going to have one. However, sometimes, no matter who was around, if I went off, I went off. No one could stop me.

My father was also watching to see how I was going to react to being sent away.

Usually, it was the opposite reaction. I demanded to see my aunt, and he demanded I stay.

As a child, it would get bad. As an adult, he had learned to let me go for a while.

It was considered a vacation from the business.

Or I threatened to quit.

However, this time, he was sending me away. He was digging for information on Mariano Fausti and whatever was going on between us. I was positive my grandfather had filled him in, but he wanted to see for himself.

Despite the thrill I would have had about leaving Italy and visiting my family in the states, it felt more like dread this time. I did not want to leave.

Leaving made me feel breathless, as if I was losing control of my heart.

My life.

My hands curled around the arms of the baroque style chair, and my eyes stayed locked with his while I slowly rose to my feet. The leg underneath the swinging one was numb, but I ignored it.

My father heaved out a sigh as I locked eyes with my sister and left to pack.

Even if I did not want to leave, it was for the best. There could never be anything between Mariano Fausti and myself, even separating us from the law forbidding a Fausti from wedding any woman in my family.

I was not in the habit of entertaining men who had unlimited choices, let alone men who were so charming, they could lull a snake like my sister into believing in forever.

The only reason the Casanova Prince was interested in me was because I had presented him with something no other woman ever had—a challenge.

As I packed only a few things, since I had a place at my aunt’s house and always left things behind during my short trips, I could admit Mariano Leone Fausti was…attractive.

I blew an irreverent hair from my face.

Certo.

Much, much, much more than attractive.

His hair was the color of pure onyx. His skin tan.

His eyes? Ah, those eyes were the color of an olive, though in a certain light, closer to the irises, they were almost..

.crystal blue. The main color reminded me of peridot, perhaps, but were almost three dimensional with the touch of blue and the black limbal ring keeping the colors contained.

When the sun hit his irises, the color almost became translucent; they glowed when the sun infiltrated their depths, making them almost seem… cyan.

His face seemed chiseled out of the most remarkable stone. His cheek bones were high, his nose narrow, and he had a dimple on his chin.

His lips? Full.

His body? Delizioso. He was tall, his shoulders wide, his waist slim. His legs were muscular but not overdone.