Page 16

His forearms made me salivate—that was how sculpted they were, a reflection of the rest of him.

His hands?

Ah, those hands.

I sighed.

They were perfect—big and capable. His right hand had a tattoo of his family’s insignia on it.

A lion with a rosary around his mane, a sacred heart in the center of his chest. I knew the design better than any design.

It was one that the designers of their jewelry, including me, drew plenty of inspiration from over the years.

His face, to his chest, to his waist, to his forearms, down to his hands, those legs… all of him …I sighed even louder. As my cugina had once said about a man in boots… hot damn!

I even dreamt about him during the flight that night.

In the dream, he gave me a bouquet of crimson roses and blood-red buttercups. It was so real that, when I woke up right before the landing, I could have sworn they were going to be in my hands. The perfumed scent surrounded me.

Once the plane fully stopped and the steps were lowered, I got up, still rubbing my eyes and shaking my head. Grabbing my bag, I stepped out into the warm Wyoming light.

It was tradition for me to stop, close my eyes, and take a deep breath. I always felt as if I was breathing out one life and settling into another one. Being a Capella and a major figure in the Cappello jewelry business always seemed to be at odds with another side of my life I loved.

Spending time with my aunt and cousins, the people I loved, on their ranch.

An old pickup truck was parked and waiting for me. The windows were rolled down, old country music floating out. My cousin, Atta Cecilia Watts, was waiting with her back against the closed driver’s side door. Her cowboy hat rested low on her forehead, shielding her amber eyes.

Her long blond hair waved gently in the breeze. She wore a white tank top, cut-off shorts that showed off her cut thighs, and caramel boots to her sculpted calves. I could smell the ranch on her, hay and hard work, and underneath it all, her sweet vanilla perfume.

She gave me a cheeky smile, her teeth bright white against her tan skin. “I’d heard a beautiful Italian lady called for some horsepower.”

Grinning, I stuck my thumb out. We had always considered ourselves Thelma and Louise. I would step off the plane, begin my tradition, and end it with Atta waiting for me. She would ask if a beautiful Italian lady needed horsepower and I would stick my thumb out as if I was hitching a ride, then…

We ran for each other.

We collided, wrapping ourselves around each other, hugging so tightly, it almost seemed as if we had turned into octopuses and grown tentacles. My entire being seemed to soak in the warm sunshine from her embrace. She was my very own sun.

“It’s so good to see you, Sis.” She made a growling noise, hugging me even tighter, rocking me back and forth.

“It is so good to see you, Sissy.”

Most people called her Atta, her grandmother called her Songbird at times, but I called her Sissy. She called me Sis.

We seemed to let go at the same time, smiling at each other.

She fixed my hair. “You seem like you had a rough night. Ready to let those horses loose?”

I nodded, wondering how someone who looked so much like my sister could still be a ray of sunshine in my life.

I adjusted my bag, and we wrapped our arms around each other’s shoulders as we walked toward the old truck.

It belonged to her brother, Ty, but sometimes she used it.

It was special to them both. It had belonged to their father.

Judge and Juri poked their heads out the window. Atta rarely went anywhere without her two long-haired German Shepherds. I cooed at them and gave them scratches behind the ears before I flung my bag in the back and climbed in.

Atta started the truck and it rumbled to life, the vibration of it making me feel at home. This time, though, a void like I had never known seemed to surface in my heart and was close to swallowing me whole. I sighed, and though the windows were down, the morning air fresh and cool, Atta heard me.

She took my hand and squeezed, the music still playing lightly in the background.

We grew into a comfortable state of silence as the truck moved forward.

Atta concentrated on the road, and Judge and Juri each took a window in the back, their heads barely poking out.

Atta had taught them how far. She did not allow much out.

She loved and protected them as much as they loved and protected her.

The entire ride, I gazed out, looking at a world that I had wished was mine many times. Wyoming was rugged and somehow still the most beautiful place I had ever seen. Perhaps the way New York was wild and classy at the same time. I blew out a frustrated breath.

The comparison was for me. It always was. Because it seemed to symbolize who I was. Not the same, exactly, but the same in that I, like Wyoming, had two sides. However, I realized that…

…ever since Mariano Fausti entered my life, all that I was feeling, thinking, and acting on was rooted back to him.

If I could describe Mariano Fausti, I would describe him the same way: the most beautiful man I had ever seen, but he was so rugged, it made a woman curious as to why.

However, the problem with men like Casanova? Men who had two very different sides and so much charm it should illegal? Once they had all of a woman, they moved on. In the Casanova Prince’s case, he would probably run.

No, sprint.

I had seen the other tattoos that marked him the day he went shirtless, and Iggy was going to take a shot at him. Half of a fierce lion took up the left side of his chest. On the right side of his back was a stallion, the word outlaw curved over his shoulders.

Also worth mentioning was that he was somewhat of a legend amongst the entire Fausti family. He was known as the Casanova Prince. A title he seemed to have inherited from Romeo Fausti, the previous wearer of the crown.

I had seen the dark side of that family when it came to women.

How they would be connected to one while buying jewelry for another.

Not all of them, but the ones who messed around.

I was sure they were truthful about it, but that was what happened when a man had numerous choices and endless resources. It made infidelity seem acceptable.

Still, jewelry is a claim.

My hand automatically went to the pendant on my necklace.

I would have given it back, but he had pulled that stunt where he took another of my clips for his own.

He did owe me, even if in gold and diamonds.

Besides, secretly, I absolutely loved the design.

I had wanted it for my own. I loved the name Annie as well, and a smile came to my face when I thought of how he had given me the nickname.

It was as if Mariano Fausti saw me—he could see straight through the layers of who I was.

The version of me the world got to see.

The version of me not everyone got to see.

The moment he looked at me, there was a version of me that seemed to be made for him only.

A sigh that felt heavy escaped my lips, and Atta reached over and grabbed my hand. “You want to talk about what happened at the concert?”

“Not now.”

She nodded. “I wouldn’t either.”

The truck rumbled, and silence engulfed us again. Although this was my time, my place, to enjoy the person I could be here, I still felt as if I had left me in Italy. If the window had been rolled up, I would have beat my head against it.

“You said his name is Mariano?”

I groaned. “Yes, according to legal records. His entire family has dubbed him the Casanova Prince.”

“The Casanova Prince, huh? That’s something. In a family that’s known to be romantic.”

All I could do was nod in agreement. “However.” I held a finger up. “There is something different about him.”

“So you keep telling me. What is it?”

I looked at her. “He has a wild mustang—Friesian, perhaps?—tattooed on his back.”

“You told me that too.” She grinned.

I did, after I had seen his bare chest and back. “He also has Outlaw above it.”

“Go on.”

Ah, maybe I had told her this as well. However, I did not go on.

I let the moment linger between us. Atta was the first person I called whenever anything important, sometimes not, happened.

She would call me as well. It was no surprise that, when Mariano Fausti appeared in my life, details had been passed on to her.

Except…there were instances when I felt like I wanted to keep things from her.

Things that seemed to belong to him and me only, which was odd for me.

She sighed, and it was long and wistful sounding. “Mamma’s father is not going to approve of the relationship.”

Atta did not call our grandfather Nonno or any other word that would give him the title. He had not earned it in her life, she felt, so she refused to call him anything but “ mamma’s father .”

“No,” I said, no hesitation. “Neither will my father.”

“I expected.”

“ I do not approve of it, Atta.”

“Juri,” she said with a scold to her tone.

Juri had tried edging her head out of the window even further.

Her dogs were well trained, but they were almost like two hairy children.

They tried to be naughty until she caught them.

She shook her head. “Let me tell you something about relationships, Sis. I always find them to be like an outfit. Sometimes an outfit will look great on the rack, but it’s truly horrible when you try it on.

“It might look amazing on someone else, but on you—it just wasn’t meant to be.

Then we find something we absolutely love in a store that’s too expensive for our pocketbook, but we don’t try it on because we’re afraid it won’t look good.

Or rather, if it does, we won’t be able to sacrifice enough to make it ours.

It’ll never be ours, because… let me count the ways . ”

“Or an outfit that does not look good on the hanger might look good on,” I said, adding to her point. “Does that mean it will look amazing on me?”

“I don’t know. But that’s the point, isn’t it? You’ll never know if you don’t find the courage to try it on.”

An old romantic country song started to play on the radio, and I leaned forward to change it. Another older song, but this one was a duet with two women—it was faster, more upbeat, and that was what I needed. Not something to feed my mood, but something to pull me out of it.

The truck bumped and rumbled along. After the song had ended, Atta leaned forward and turned the radio down. It was almost nothing but static in the background of the wind.

“I have to ask you a serious question.”

I nodded, knowing this was coming. I sighed again, but it stole nothing from the pressure in my chest.

She squeezed the wheel. “His hands?”

A simple question made of two words.

His hands.

The memory of them sent butterflies spinning in my stomach. There were so many of the winged things, it felt as if they might combine and carry me out of the window.

“Rough,” I said, and my voice matched the word. “Calloused. Uneven fingernails. The state of them does not make sense with the rest of him.”

“That’s why he’s different,” she whispered, but I heard her. I heard her as well as Judge and Juri could hear the call of a bird from hectares away. “Do you ache, Sis?”

I sighed, long and heavy. “I do.” I set my hands over my chest. “Somewhere in the vicinity of my heart.”

Again, we said nothing until the Watt family ranch was in view.

She pulled into the three-mile drive, kicking up dust in our wake.

At the end of the road, she parked in front of the main house, as everyone called it.

Sighing she rested her head on the steering wheel, knocking her hat back, and turned her face so she could meet my eyes.

“You’re in big trouble,” she blurted.

“I know,” I whispered. “This is why I am here.”