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I finally found her with Zio Romeo and Zia Juliette.

They were staring into a glass case with earrings—underneath the case was the history of the piece.

Sistine was offering to make Zia Juliette a custom piece in the style of the ones she was admiring, since Zia Juliette would only be able to borrow the earrings for an occasion, if she wanted to.

Seeing Sistine with my uncle and aunt made me take an easier breath, and even though it was chilly in the vault, the hissing torches made me feel overheated. I wiped sweat from my brow and, like Marciano had done earlier, took a spot in a darkened corner.

Sistine must have felt me close, because she turned her head some, narrowing her eyes, trying to see through the darkened areas. When her eyes passed over my spot, they stilled for a moment before she shook her head.

Zia Juliette wanted a custom pair of the earrings—she gave Sistine the specifics. Unlike the guy who escorted us down, Sistine seemed to be memorizing Zia Juliette’s words. Sistine asked a few questions, then said she would be designing and creating the earrings herself.

Adone had mentioned how talented Sistine was. Capri only designed, but Sistine was gifted in both design and creating.

After the order was placed and Zio Romeo and Zia Juliette moved along, another Cappello attendant following to take any more orders they had, Sistine didn’t move from her spot.

Her back was to me, and it was like she was trying to slow her breathing.

Her shoulders went up on a breath, and down slowly with the exhale.

I could hear her controlling her breaths.

Then she shook her fingers out and hustled away from where she was.

I followed, only a few steps behind.

We turned down another corridor and she stopped abruptly, her back still to me. It seemed like she was counting, and after a few breaths, she turned. She gasped and slapped a hand over her heart.

Her eyes narrowed into daggers again, the torchlight making the hazel color glisten, and painted her skin a red that was almost as blistering as a blush.

It seemed to be creeping up her neck and heating her cheeks.

Then she seemed to remember she had a job to do.

She stood taller, her thin hands tightening and releasing, like she was trying to get the blood pumping in her fingers to warm the chill.

“Do you see something you like, Signor Fausti?” Her voice was almost melodic, almost a breathy whisper, but for all that, she was trying to be as professional as possible. There was no denying the curt undertone.

That was a loaded fucking question, and she realized it after the words spilled out of her mouth and I raised my eyebrows at her.

She flung a hand toward a case. “Something from your family’s vault. The jewelry .”

My eyes were becoming too enchanted by looking at her, and I had to rip them away and in the direction she had pointed.

I almost did a double take, and then my feet seemed to go to the case without thought.

Behind the glass, at least a seven-carat ruby in the shape of a heart glistened in the firelight, along with the diamonds that framed it.

For whatever reason, I looked between the ring and Sistine.

This time, her eyebrows lifted. “You can have a replica of that one made, with different materials, but under no circumstances can it be taken out of the case, unless instructed by someone other than the people in this building.”

“Tell me,” I said in Italian.

She chucked her chin toward the case. “The history is there for you to read. That is not a ruby you are looking at, Signor Fausti, but a true red diamond in the center.”

Reluctantly, I turned my eyes back to the ring. Underneath its perfect placement was a note written by someone with impeccable handwriting. The ink was as preserved as the ring. The firelight passed over it in waves of heat that couldn’t touch the paper or the metal but still gave life to both.

The name of the ring was listed: Fate’s Blood .

Underneath the name was the ring’s history.

The ring itself dated back to the Renaissance Era, but the red diamond didn’t have a date.

It was never tested for its true age and never would be.

One of my ancestors was given the blood diamond as a gift in return for his gallant service.

The giver assumed it was a ruby, and my ancestor logged it in as such when it was brought to the Cappello store.

It wasn’t until years later that one of the jewelers who belonged to the store was logging in information and came across the truth.

It was a rare red diamond. No other blood diamond in history could measure up to its size—seven karats.

It was flawless and had been found naturally in the shape of a heart.

The truth of it was kept under wraps because of its value.

I continued to read how only a man strong of faith could even attempt to make a bid for it.

The ring was at the center of the rift that caused the law to be made.

No man from the Fausti family could marry, or associate, with a woman from the jewelry family after the feud was all said and done.

The couple’s relationship almost tore apart the relationship between the Fausti family and the Cappellos.

However, any man in my family could make a bid for the ring, but under one condition: Fate would decide if the couple was meant to be or not.

Meaning, the couple needed to be brought to a labyrinth, and if he found her in it, they could wed, and the ring was his to give to her. If not, the wedding couldn’t take place, and the ring stayed put.

The highest stake?

The relationship would stall out. It was an all-in situation. The man would face death if he attempted to be with her after Fate had the last say.

I hesitated before I turned back to Sistine.

I could see that she was watching me through the glass case, unaware that I noticed she was.

She was fixated on me. And not just on my face.

Her eyes kept dropping to my hands. Maybe she was trying to figure out if my hands were in proportion to my…

feet. I grinned, and her eyes stilled on my face.

As soon as I turned toward her, she seemed to force herself to blink, and she swallowed hard.

I stabbed my thumb toward the case. “That’s a bit dramatic, ah?”

“The ring belongs to your family.” She shrugged. “The law was made by one of yours.”

Translated: your family is dramatic, and I expect no less from them.

Fair enough.

Her subtlety made me grin again. She narrowed her eyes almost in suspicion, and I took a step toward her.

She took a step back. When she realized I was enjoying the dance, she planted her boots on the floor, looking up at me with defiance in her hardened eyes.

My kaleidoscope was locked, the colors refusing to move, to allow me entrance to the connection that we both knew existed beyond the depths.

“Let’s strip away our names for a few minutes. I’m Mariano and you’re Sistine—no last names.” I switched to Italian. “You have something on your mind. Speak it without the bars that surround us.”

“Who are you to give me permission to speak or not?” she whispered, but the snap couldn’t be missed.

“You need it, or you would’ve already said what’s on your mind.”

“What if I have nothing on my mind? Nothing but getting through this workday as if it’s any other day.” She had an Italian accent, but I noticed it wasn’t as heavy as her grandfather’s, or anyone else who belonged to her family. That fact made me even more curious about her.

“Your facial expressions say otherwise.” I made some of the same faces she had been— rolling her eyes, scrunching up her nose, pinching her lips. I was sure if she could produce smoke, it would have blown out of her nostrils and ears.

She huffed at me. “You are so entitled.” She took a step closer to me, but I refused to budge.

If she kept coming forward, we would collide, and that was exactly what I fucking wanted. I wanted her with me in the chaos she had started in my life the moment our eyes met, and I was flung off that proverbial cliff.

“You come here smelling like a million bucks—perhaps your custom-made suit and jacket costs that much—and you walk around your family’s vault as if it were you who personally put in hundreds and hundreds of hours logging in every diamond, every jewel, every piece of gold as if it was as precious as a human body.

And out of a llll the Fausti men I have ever met, you, Casanova Prince , are the most pompous of them all.

” She stabbed a finger into my chest, then flicked my tie to the side, causing it to hang over my shoulder.

She did an about face and went to hustle away from me in the opposite direction.

“Sistine,” I called.

She stopped, her back to me, her shoulders so stiff, they were almost to her ears.

“You know who I am,” I said.

She made a growling noise, like she was beyond frustrated with me and couldn’t wait to be as far away from me as possible. Then she moved even faster to get away from me, the worn-down heel of her boots echoing as she moved.

She had no fucking clue. I’m Brando Fausti’s second son. Not his oldest, who always had a clear picture of his life and how it would go. For almost my entire life, I was good at many things, so I simply did. The moment my eyes locked on her, all of that changed.

Matteo might be close in line to be the next king lion of the Fausti family, but I’m the image of Brando Fausti who operates outside the lines. And if it took me operating outside laws to have Sistine Evita—I’d accept fate’s challenge for her.

My feet turned me back to the ring behind the case.

We’ll meet again. Soon.

A wave of heat moved over the diamond, and it seemed to glisten like a pool of fresh blood would in response.

Oh, we shall.