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Sistine

“ A re you okay, Sis?”

I was lost in thought and had to take a second to form the question my cousin asked in my mind.

Am I okay? I was sitting in Atta’s room while she did my hair for the charity gala.

I had colored my hair in Italy, but my natural color was close to the color Atta changed it back to: cappuccino—a deep warm brown with dark auburn undertones.

After coloring my hair back to its original shade, she pulled it into an elegant chignon.

She was using red roses and red buttercups created from silk to make a hair piece around the fancy bun.

As she did my hair, my mind kept wandering.

I did not want to go to the event. Even more, I did not want Casanova to go either.

I did not have to be psychic to foretell every woman in the room with a deep enough pocketbook was going to fight over him.

I would not be surprised if it did not come to blows, as Atta would say, or millions.

The guests invited were all wealthy. The bids would probably start high.

In return for the generous sum his physical appearance would bring in, he would be required to take the winner on a date.

“Sis,” Atta said, sticking another rose in my hair. “Relax your shoulders and your hands. You’re as tight as a bargain-shopper’s purse strings.”

I took a deep breath and released it slowly. I did not want to talk to Atta about this. Her man, Angelo, would not be getting auctioned. When Ty tried to recruit him, Atta threw what she called a conniption fit. Angelo laughed raspy and low, kissing her hand.

The hand he had slipped a diamond engagement ring on.

“Are you okay?” I returned the question.

She had known Angelo for less than a month, and she had accepted his marriage proposal.

Or, she had told me, it was not much of a proposal but a firm— we will be together forever statement.

I could see that about a Fausti proposal. They rarely asked for anything.

“ Fine by me ,” she had said after she told me. “ I knew it the moment our eyes locked. He asked me then, and I said yes. He wasn’t foolin’ around. Neither was I. He’s it for me, Sistine. My forever. ”

As simple as that, and they were planning for a wedding in mid-October. It was early August.

“Oh, you mean the wedding?” She grabbed for a silk buttercup, sliding the stem into my hair.

She studied it for a moment before she went for a rose.

She spoke in a whisper when she answered.

“I know you’re worried, but the moment my eyes met his…

I just knew. It was like…all the pieces of my life just clicked into place.

I’ve never felt love like his. It covers me like a blanket.

It can turn into a shield in a heartbeat.

It’s…well, you know how it feels, don’t you? ”

I refused to answer. She squeezed my shoulder gently and shook me a bit.

“It’s me, Sistine. You can be honest with me.”

“Yes,” I whispered. “I do know how it feels.”

“It’s how love is supposed to feel, right?” she whispered. “Even if we’ve never felt it before, we instinctively know. And for me, his future is more important than his past. Angelo has one too. With women, I mean. It’s…excessive, but…you know when you know.”

“Yes,” was all I could say.

She sighed, knowing I might have given her the surface news about Mariano, but I was a private person when it came to deeper feelings. She never pushed, the same as Zia Bianca and Hannah, but she was always there for me—even in the silence, which took me away again until it was time to get dressed.

I’d decided on a black satin dress that fell below my knees.

It had a bustier bodice and subtle boning.

My four-inch heels were black satin with rose embellishments around the ankles.

I wore a chunky gold necklace with a baroque-style cross and matching oversized earrings.

And even if the nameplate necklace did not fit, it fit me. So, I refused to take it off.

I spritzed on a more seductive perfume for the evening—rose instead of the apple-infused scent I usually wore. Even when I wasn’t wearing it, it seemed to come naturally to me. It worked with my personal skin chemicals. Which was why horses seemed to like to nibble on me as well.

Just as I had brought my boots from the ranch with me to Venice, I was bringing my baroque style with me to Wyoming. I was who I was. My style was my style.

Sicilia, who was about to take over House of Sicilia, had been working with my family on designs inspired by the Fausti family, and she had sent over samples for me to wear. I loved her style—she was excellent at reading body types, and I always felt feminine, romantic, and powerful in her designs.

Atta and I whistled at each other when we both emerged from our rooms, ready to go.

Her blond hair was pulled to the side, cascading over her shoulder and touching her waist. Her amber eyes exploded against the colors she used on them.

Her black and silver gown sparkled with the lights and hugged all her sensual curves.

I had them as well, curves, but to a much lesser degree.

Though, to be fair to myself, even if I needed a push-up bra to enhance my C-cup teardrops, my breasts were nice—especially paired with my collarbones.

I always felt that was one area of my body I would not change. Necklaces always seemed to suit me.

Angelo was waiting for Atta, and when he saw her, his eyes lowered, his lips parted, and he pulled her in and whispered something in her ear that made her close her eyes and smile.

I smiled as well, although I kept thinking about what was to come.

The “dark auction” as I had started calling it in my head.

It was irking me that I even cared whether the Casanova went on a date or not!

Outside, in the unusually warm night, I groaned when I scented him in the air. He smelled so good, my mouth watered, and my heart sped up. I wished I could lie and say his cologne, or whatever it was—a natural scent?—did not affect me, but it did. It made my heart gallop and my head spin.

Even though I had registered the scent, I was not prepared for a hand to reach out. I screamed and then automatically turned to swat at whoever had grabbed me, but my hand stilled. “Ah,” I breathed out, trying to catch my breath. “It is you.”

Casanova’s eyes took me in as if I was the air he needed to breathe. His stare was so intense, I turned my face away from his, feeling my cheeks heat.

“Sistine.”

When he called my name with an Italian accent, almost like “Sistina,” his voice full of gravel, it was as if my eyes obeyed without my mind ordering them to.

Our eyes held, and his seemed to hold so much to say, but he seemed to be having a hard time expressing whatever it was he felt he needed to say.

In the end, he said, “You are so beautiful, my Annie. Heartbreakingly beautiful. There’s so much more I could say, but I’m saving the truth for another time. Another place.”

I tried to find the words to answer him, but I ended up probably looking like a fish out of water—gasping. I finally closed my mouth on a snap and said, “You look beautiful, as well, Casanova.”

Lame. Lame. Sfigato.

It was all I could find to say. He had hypnotized me with his scent, his tux, and the look in his eyes. The absolute truth in his voice. Also, perhaps if I complimented him, he would not do the auction.

He lifted my hand, placed a warm kiss on my knuckles, and kept my hand in his as we walked to the waiting cars. It was apparent the compliment scheme had not worked.

What did this man want? My blood?

This was exactly what he wanted, and I sighed, turning my mind in another direction. I did not want to melt into a puddle at his feet from the inner heat inside of me at the thought of us…being together. His hands doing more than holding mine…

His hands.

I had realized time and time again how much bigger than me he was, but when his hand engulfed mine…I felt so…feminine.

To my surprise, he opened the door to a decked-out Cadillac, helping me in. He was driving me. Everyone else was driving in separate cars.

On the ride, my mind still lingered in the direction of his body. Mostly how it would feel to have him engulf me in the bedroom. His powerful body over mine, working mine to a state of ecstasy that erased the world and only kept the two of us in the sketch.

He cleared his throat. “Your hair.”

He drove so smoothly…

Dannazione. I had to force my mouth closed, check for drool, and, again, force my eyes away from him. I had been staring. His eyes were still on the road.

“My hair?” I whispered. “The flowers?

“The color.”

I did not even take into consideration he would notice. “It is a small change.” I waved my hand.

“Could be minuscule, a fucking scratch that wasn’t there the second before, I notice everything when it comes to you, ah?”

I refused to bite. His tone was possessive, and I did not want to go down that route with him. “This is, ah, you could say, my natural color.”

“Don’t ever change it,” he said. “It does things to your eyes.”

“Such as?”

He was quiet for so long, I thought he was not going to answer. He cleared his throat. “Makes them more vivid. Don’t ever change it.”

Even if I wanted to, I would not. The way he said those words, don’t ever change it , it was as if he was telling me if I changed who I was, he could not live.

It all felt very melodramatic, but the truth of it still hit me square in the chest. He was successful at this.

Making me feel as if my bones were designed for him.

Anything more or less would not fit him.

It was a compliment that made me breathless. “ Grazie ,” I whispered.

His eyes, the peridot color glowing from the car lights coming toward us, cut to mine, then his hands squeezed the wheel, the veins swollen and highlighted by the lights as well. He gave a slow nod.