Page 47

Sistine

I went with light colors that complimented the cream dress I had decided on.

It was mostly all tulle with dramatic sleeves.

A slight breeze would carry the fabric without issue, making the dress billow around me.

The top was corset style, but it was not overly done.

It only enhanced, cinching my waist in and lifting my breasts some.

My hair was done in waves, left down, pulled up on the sides. A veil flowed over my shoulders.

Perhaps we would not have a church full of guests, but this was still our wedding, and I wanted Mariano to see me this way.

I took a deep breath and released it. I trusted Mariano. Trusted that he would see this through.

I would see this through.

The woman in the mirror staring back at me vowed it.

The world would know that Mariano Fausti was mine, even my stubborn family, and that I was his.

A shuddering breath left my mouth.

The thought of the world knowing we belonged to each other caused a swirl of strong emotions inside of me—mostly made me stand taller, proud to become his wife.

It made me tingle all over as well. Tingle in places that ached because it felt as if we had been apart for centuries, and we were about to reconnect in irrevocable ways.

Ways that were traditional and new.

This tradition covered both at once.

My last name.

Sistine Evita Fausti, aka, his Annie.

It was not customary for an Italian woman to exchange her last name for her husband’s. I would. I wanted my name next to his as much as Mariano wanted it. I longed to be his in all ways.

I smiled a little at myself, ran a hand down the soft, willowy fabric.

All these romantic notions from a woman who would have married for duty, not caring about love and all it detailed.

It was easier this way. I could go through life as my mamma had.

Being connected to someone only out of loyalty to the jewelers who created claims for the Fausti family to hand out.

Claims to their lineage that we knew so well, because we had lived it with them over the years.

My heels tapped on the wooden floor as I grabbed for a bouquet of red roses and red buttercups on the table.

My favorite flowers. The fabric keeping the bouquet together had my great-grandmother’s cross necklace wrapped around it.

Zia Bianca had given it to me years ago.

She said my grandfather had always claimed he had not gotten anything from her, however, every so often, he would come up with things.

My hands stilled before taking the bouquet.

I hoped, for the umpteenth time, that Mariano’s family would not be upset with us over this. The only souls attending were Atta, Angelo, and a priest.

It is better this way , I reminded myself. Better not to pull anyone else in. Anyone else but the three people willing to be witnesses to our exchange of vows.

A knock came at the door before it creaked open.

Atta stuck her head in before she fully came in.

She was wearing a copper- colored dress, and it pulled out the amber in her eyes and made it pop.

She looked me up and down, her hands coming to her mouth, before she almost knocked me over with a bear hug.

“Sistine!” She took a step back, eyeing me again, this time closer. “You’ve always been gorgeous, but right now, you’re ethereal. Glowing.”

I hugged her tight in thanks. I could not speak past the lump in my throat.

She gently patted my back. “I know,” she whispered, fighting back a strong emotion. “I love you too.” We fully pulled apart, and she smiled at me, tears running down her face. “You ready?”

“ Sì .” I grabbed my bouquet.

“Good.” She nodded. “Because if you’re not out there in the next three minutes, your groom is going to explode in here like a super villain and tear the place apart. He has ants in his pants!”

I smiled. “I have them in my heels.” I pulled the hem of my dress up and showed them to her.

By unspoken agreement, we started forward, Atta helping me every step of the way. A woman met us at the door, set a camera against her face, and began taking pictures.

“This is Shelby,” Atta said. “She arrived for our wedding, and Mariano hired her for today.”

Shelby had us pose together, but she told me that, though she would be around, she would fade into the background for the ceremony.

Everything and everyone faded into the background when I stepped out on the porch and Mariano was waiting for me. A rose and buttercup, both made from silk, were attached to his suit. He had taken them from my hair clips. The ones he had stolen from me in Venice—his good luck charms.

My eyes burned with tears. Everything this man did for me had meaning. It had meaning from the very beginning.

His eyes met mine, and it was the most intense moment of my life. Nothing could stop us from moving toward each other. Each step we took felt deliberate and full of conviction and love.

He met me halfway, taking my hand, lifting it to his mouth before he bowed to me.

After he breathed me in, he stood, looking into my watery eyes.

“The world is not glowing,” he said in Italian.

“You are.” He placed my hand over his heart, allowing me to feel the cadence of it.

Fast. “If my heart was a chisel, it would be carving this moment into my bones. It has gone even further. My soul. The one part of ourselves we take when we leave this world.”

“ Ah, ” was all I could get out, tears running warm and fast along my cheeks, but before they could turn cold, he used his thumbs to dry them, his fingertips running along his bottom lip before he rolled it in with his beautiful teeth. His lip glistened when he released it.

He wasted no time helping me down the steps of the porch, guiding me toward the back of the property, Atta right behind us, keeping my veil in check.

An old cream stone surface still stood behind the cabin.

It was in the shape of an arch. It almost reminded me of a horseshoe.

A mixture of red buttercups and deep red roses, along with copper-colored flowers, covered it.

The sun was low and broke around the woods, setting us between the break, beams of light on each of our sides.

The world was glowing around us—concentrated between us.

It was present for the words we would speak next to each other. Words that for him, for me, would live on past a lifetime. They were traditional with a new feel. Just as the world around us was.

This was our own space.

Our own time.

Even when we spoke the words that would be chiseled on his bones, inside of his soul and mine, the sun did not go down on our love.

It bore witness to a moment in time that could never be changed.

As a wintry sun had when our eyes first met in my family’s jewelry store in Venice.

The winter had formed a protective layer around it, while the sun warmed it enough from the inside not to freeze.

This was our love.

The fall.

How it all began.

“A moment worth dying for,” Mariano whispered. “Worth living for.” He pounded a fist over his chest, as if he were making a vow to himself.

Or the heart he claimed I owned in his chest.

The officiant pronounced us as man and wife. Instructed Mariano that he could kiss his bride.

He grinned at me, cradling my face in his palms, the smoothness in contrast to the callouses making me shiver when his thumbs caressed my skin. “The first and last time anyone gets to tell me when to kiss my wife.”

He leaned in closer, and I was already lost to him.

Lost to this moment.

His lips were tentative at first, seeking, and when he found me completely open to him, the kiss was soul-stealing, mixing, as if there would never be a time he could fully find himself , I could fully find myself , without the other close.

The it that connected us was still between us when we parted.

The glow was even more fiery than it had been before.

The moment was so overwhelming, as the kiss was, and I closed my eyes to it, but a smile came to my face as I squeezed Mariano’s arms. His hands still cradled my face.

He was staring at me. Although my eyes were closed to the rest of the world, they were never closed to him.

My world.

I could feel him. Feel what he was doing to me.

Already stirring the heat inside of me.

“I finally have a name for you,” I whispered. “All mine . No one else is allowed to call you this.”

“ Dimmi ,” he said, tell me , as if this was the most important moment of his life. He was hanging on by a thread, and my answer would hand him a lifesaving rope.

If Mariano Fausti’s love and devotion could be summed up, that would be it. He treated me as though I was the most important moments of his life, and one day, they would be equal to our entire lives.

“ Marito mio ,” I breathed out. “ My husband.”

“The only way,” he almost choked out. “The only way. You.” He kissed me again, sealing another vow, and applause and whistles went up around us, the breeze stirring the leaves at our feet, as though the entire world was marking and celebrating this moment in history with our hearts.

They were finally home— per sempre .