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The tension in the car almost felt as if a storm was upon us. I reached forward to turn on the radio to break it up, then let out a mini scream.

Mariano’s eyes swung to mine, as if I was hurt.

I pointed. “I love this song! It is an oldie, as Atta would say.” I turned up the country song, belting it out, adding hand motions. Even pointing at Casanova and singing to him.

I laughed at the…serious? confounded? lost?...look on his face. His thick, dark eyebrows were pulled down, and his expression almost resembled a frown. I did not think it was. He was only…thinking. Attempting to process…me.

“Casanova,” I said on a laugh. “You have not heard this song?”

“No,” he whispered. “But now I’ll not forget it.”

“It is a good one,” I agreed.

He grumbled something, and I was almost positive he said, “It’s not the fucking song.”

The rest of the drive, the music continued to break the tension.

When we arrived at the hotel where the charity gala was being held, Mariano turned the music down and directed the car to a man I recognized.

Remo was his name. He was a Fausti, the son of Vincenzo.

He was all Fausti. Molded by their powerful genetics. Dark features and intense eyes.

Angelo followed Mariano, and another man took Angelo’s car and parked it.

Both soldiers accompanying us belonged to the Fausti family and were “under” Mariano and Angelo.

Mariano was only one son away from the Fausti throne.

This was not a title that was taken lightly in my family, as far as importance with orders, and I knew it was not taken lightly in their world either.

Mariano exuded that power with every breath, every step he took.

And after he had personally opened my door to the car, reaching behind me to grab something from the back seat, he helped me out, placing his hand on my lower back.

He directed me toward the hotel, setting a black cowboy hat over his head.

It was the equivalent of a crown to me.

In my daze, my feet refused to move, and I stopped abruptly inside of the hotel. The pressure on my lower back increased for a second before he stopped and looked into my eyes.

“Annie,” he said, and it sounded like a question. He was checking to make sure I was all right.

I was not . He had just stolen my breath and made my knees weak.

I had nothing to hold on to that would make me feel steady.

The wall was too far away, and so were any seats.

It was either Casanova or my dress, and out of the two, the dress felt safer.

My hands curled around the delicate fabric, and I tried to catch my breath.

His eyes sparkled from the antler chandelier hanging in the foyer, the hat only enhancing the shine somehow. Perhaps because his eyes were the lightest thing about him, and his darkness pulled from it, like a fire would soften a frigid night.

I was always cold, to the point where all my family, except for my grandfather, complained about it inside of the store.

Except when this man was near me. I was warm.

The kind of warmth that made one feel as if she was in the best lull of her life.

As if my bones sighed and relaxed inside of me, settling into the feel of the tepid breeze accompanying the fire. Unless he irked me. Then I became hot.

His eyes searched mine, and when he seemed to find the cause of my trouble, a cheeky grin came to his face.

“The hat do it for you, Annie?”

“Yes,” I breathed out. Then I realized how cheeky he was acting, and I back-stepped, literally.

He was pulling me in too close. If I didn’t force myself out of his magnetic pull, I would be lost forever.

“No,” I stammered like an idiot. “I think I just moved too fast after I stepped out of the car.”

“Ah,” he breathed. “It’s an equilibrium issue.”

“ Yes ,” I said with emphasis. “It is this.”

He laughed. Roared with it.

And although it was a sound that made my heart dance, my eyes took in the room.

The moment had shrunk the world around us, but the beautiful sound had opened it back up.

Only because the men in the room were suddenly sizing up this creature who was as wild as a stallion with the heart of a lion, if I read his tattoos right.

The women…the women in the room could not get enough of him.

They were staring at him like he was prized cattle to be bid on later.

Ty!

At that moment, he walked past with his date, Emma.

She was from Maine, a fellow Mi'kmaq tribe member, and from what Atta had told me, it was getting serious between them.

Emma took Ty by the lapels and pulled him along when she realized how my eyes were narrowed, and that he was wiggling his brows, a grin on his face.

When my eyes moved back to Casanova, his were trained on the opposite side of the room. An older man, probably about ten years or so older than me, was staring in our direction. Mariano met his stare.

The entire hotel had been reserved for the gala, and wait staff were passing with drinks. The man already had one, whiskey by the color of it. Mariano accepted the same from one of the waiters. Another offered me champagne, but I declined.

Too early. I had to keep my wits about me.

I was not sure what was going on between Mariano and the man, but I decided to leave them to it. I went to take a step in the direction Ty and Emma had gone, to the actual room where the gala was taking place, but Mariano put a hand on my arm.

The man, who was also wearing a tux with cowboy boots and cowboy hat, was walking toward us. It was hard to tell what color hair he had underneath the hat, but his features were chiseled, and it was clear to see he was muscular underneath his tux.

He did not bother holding his hand out to Mariano when he reached us. He only tipped his hat before he began speaking. “I wanted to introduce myself. Clint Herndon. I’m from Houston and a good friend of Lou Blackett. He signed Atta to his record label.”

It was not Mariano who he was telling this to, but me.

“I felt compelled to introduce myself,” he continued. “I had to meet the woman who created such a stunning piece of jewelry for the auction. You are as stunning as your art, Ms. Capella.”

I set my hand to my neck, over my jugular notch, my mind conjuring the piece I had designed specifically for the auction. It seductively wrapped around the neck in gold, the round garnet pressing against the throat. It was a baroque-style piece, which I was known for.

He nodded at me. “I look forward to owning such a stunning piece of…jewelry, since I understand you and your family personally serve the Fausti family only, except for the rare pieces that are allowed in instances such as these.”

Correct. Money could not be earned from our pieces unless it was the Fausti family who paid us. Occasionally, we were allowed to design for design powerhouses, such as the one Sicilia was affiliated with, and for charity.

The Fausti family had approved my designing for Atta’s charity gala years ago. Every year, I designed something exclusively for it. Every year, my jewelry brought in a nice sum for the charity.

“For your other half,” I said to Clint, suddenly feeling chilled by the man standing next to me.

Casanova. His eyes were in the distance, but there was no doubt he was listening. His body had turned hard, frigid, and it was turning the once warm room cold.

Clint Herndon laughed, but it was low, seductive.

“I know who your family are, Ms. Capella. I have followed your career for a while. Let’s just say I’m a fan and want it for personal reasons.

” He winked at me, and I was suddenly afraid for that eye.

“Talk again soon.” He tipped his hat to me and shuffled toward the ballroom with another glass of whiskey in his hand.

Sighing, I refused to look at Casanova. I could feel how rigid he had gone next to me.

When we had arrived, he had still been stunned by my personal concert in the car.

Clint Herndon’s gallant speech had turned him to a block of ice.

I did not want to face off with him. He was pissed off.

Probably thinking about all the nefarious things he could do with that winking eye.

I was incensed as well. Even thinking about all the women whose wallets were burning with impatience for the bidding hour was making me hot. I could feel my skin flushing from it.

Stop it, Sistine! Casanova is not yours. He belongs to all the women in the world, remember?

Atta’s hand snaked around my waist, directing me toward the room where my necklace was on display. Angelo hung back to walk next to frigid Casanova. He was downing whiskey as if it might run out.

Atta leaned in and whispered in my ear, “ First . Stop talking to yourself—prying ears are listening to your secrets. Second. Clint Herndon’s interest in your necklace goes beyond your necklace, if you catch my drift.”

I nodded. “I caught it.”

“He’s one of the most sought out bachelors in this circle. Or he was.”

I stopped, and she stopped. We faced each other. She nodded before she took me by the hip and we started walking again.

“Your Casanova is as popular as your necklace.”

“ Mine ,” I grumbled. “I bet he is.”

She squeezed my hip. “Clint is bidding big time on your necklace. His family owns a high-value equestrian ranch in Houston. He branched off and started his own jewelry stores. He has a chain. One of the youngest millionaires in the world, atm.”

“Points for him,” I said.

She laughed. “You’re not impressed, I take it?”

“I am never impressed by money.”

“Atta girl.” She hip-bumped me.

We both grinned at each other. When Atta was first born, she refused to take a breath on her own. Once she did, Zia Bianca told us her father had said to her, Atta girl. And that was how she got her name. Cecilia was named after our great-grandmother, the one my family told me I favored.