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We turned around in a circle, before we shoved away from each other, circling again, both of us looking for a way to land a punch. This wasn’t unusual in our family to fight out our aggression, but it wasn’t normal protocol to do it without sanction.

This brought me back years and years, when Nemours almost killed Mamma, and our old man was going to leave with her.

After Mamma woke up, things took a while to get back to normal.

Our parents were working something out in their own universe.

Papà even left for Italy with Matteo for a short stint, to kill Nemours, and the rest of us went with Mamma to Austin, Texas.

I was put in charge of her safety. I took it very fucking seriously.

Still do when Mamma is with me. But during that southwestern trip was when Marciano threw his fucking tantrum.

No doubt, he was throwing one again.

Maybe something had happened with a woman. The House of Sicilia woman. Maybe she’d left him, or turned him down, and he was dealing with the emotional fallout from it.

He had wild aggression.

That morning. After the footprints.

So did I.

We started swinging on each other.

It was hard to land punches when the men we battled were just like us.

My brother was no exception. He was as fast as a lightning strike with the intensity of rolling thunder when he landed a punch.

It was best to avoid Marciano’s punches at all costs.

Tiring him out was an option, with the occasional hit, but he was almost as vigorous as me.

It wasn’t until both of our noses were bleeding, and we’d both have bruises, that I realized an audience had collected around us. Angelo and some of the men.

When Marciano noticed it, he stepped out of my reach and went for Angelo.

Angelo had been standing with his arms crossed, legs apart, eyes focused.

Blood drew my family in. Made them hungry to take part in the challenge.

To be in the ring, throwing punches, almost willing to take a punch so that the adrenaline would rush, and they could feel a surge of hot blood take hold.

Angelo was not prepared for Marciano.

Marciano hit him with enough speed and power to knock him into next fucking week. Angelo recovered quickly, even if he was hurting. I wasn’t sure if he’d be limping down the aisle.

My heart was still racing. My muscles almost seizing. I had to keep my arms folded to stop from lashing out at the man next to me. He refused to meet my eyes for good reason. The scent of my own blood was in my nose, and it was making me hungry for more.

I walked closer to where the two men were battling it out. Angelo was strong, but I knew Marciano could take him down. I had an idea of what this was about, but I would speak to Marciano personally after I called the fight.

“ Abbastanaza !” Enough! I gave the order.

The two men separated, hierarchy so ingrained in them that one word snapped them apart. They were both breathing heavy. Not from exhaustion but from the high of the fight.

I ordered Angelo to his cottage. I’d be by to pick him up in a while.

He went to walk off when I called his name. He stopped.

“Do not allow the women to see you this way,” I spoke in Italian. “Your bride will not take it well.”

Neither would mine, but I held the thought to myself.

I ordered all the men to follow Angelo but to spread out along the lines of the property that needed to be secured.

Rio had gotten the property lines before I arrived.

We went over strategic placement of men.

I didn’t realize how important this would be until the name Rattler came up.

Iggy was contained for now. Lev had eyes on him from all sides.

My hands tightened into fists when Rio had last updated me on Iggy. He was going fucking insane looking for my wife.

A smile slowly came to my face at her title in my life.

My wife.

Soon enough, the world would know that Sistine Evita was mine.

Sighing, I went to deal with the big fucking man who was still looking at me with intent in his eyes. He was furling his fists and unfurling them in punctuated intervals.

“This isn’t Italy, Mariano,” he said calmly, coolly, but underneath the armor, Vesuvius was going off.

“I know where we fucking stand, but I’m still your older brother. Doesn’t matter where we are in the world. When I call a fight, I call it. No bride wants a mangled groom on her wedding day. Atta still might kick your fucking ass.”

“You fucking told Angelo but not me! He was there. I know he was. I’m not stupid, Mariano. I’m more than my fucking muscles. My brain is stronger, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. You’re both wearing rings on the appropriate fingers.”

I narrowed my eyes at him.

“Right there. That’s all I’m getting from you, which equals to niente.

You’re my brother.” He hit his chest. “I’ve always looked up to you.

Matteo is too far up the family’s ass to bother with me.

Maestro is in his own world most of the time.

Mia is married with babies. I thought it was you and me.

I thought we were tight. Take the family out of it.

Just brothers. Like we are in Natchitoches.

” He flung a hand up, turning and walking off.

“Marciano.” He kept walking. “Stop, motherfucker.”

He did, his shoulders high and tight.

“You’re my little brother,” I said. “I don’t want you involved in the situation I’m in. Not now. Understand what I’m saying?” I had no fucking clue what kind of storm my wife and I would face in Italy once we returned married. I didn’t want my brother involved.

His shoulders fell, and my heart hurt when he said in a low tone, “I bet Spicy Sissy looked beautiful in her dress.”

I said nothing as I walked up to him, setting my hand on his shoulder, and squeezed.

I couldn’t tell him anything because it went against who we were as men, no matter where we were in the world, Italy or not, to lie.

If I confirmed what he was thinking, and someone questioned him about it, he could give his word that he knew nothing of the situation, because he fucking didn’t, not for sure.

There was also no doubt when mamma arrived, she was going to feel something, and the first person she’d go to was Marciano. He was a fucking mamma’s man. One scratch of her nails against his scalp and one would think she performed water torture on him.

I took his head in my hand and shook it, setting loose the leaves and shit in his hair. He laughed, raspy and low, just like me. We all shared the same laugh, even Mia to a certain degree. My nephews, her sons, did too.

“Fuck you, Mari,” he said.

“Fuck you, Marci.”

“You know I fucking hate when you call me that,” he said, all melancholy and shit.

My brother, even being a fucking tank, was a good man with a loyal heart one woman would be lucky to have someday.

“Come on, brother,” I said, directing him to my truck by his neck. “We have personal business to attend to.”

He perked up at this.

“I’ll fill you in on the ride.”

He knocked grass from my hair. “All right. Let’s ride.”

Just like that…all was squashed between us, and our world was set right.

Marciano turned the dial on the radio, and Cash sang “Bad News.” My brother sang along with him. Every so often he’d grin at the lyrics.

A cloud of dust ate the truck as we traveled down the old dirt road Jack, the guy we’d met in town, lived on.

The weather was somewhere between warm and chilly.

The windows were rolled down. Marciano and I had our arms almost hanging out of the truck.

Angelo was sitting in the back, his face as hard as mine.

All was well between him and Marciano, but he was steeling himself for this visit.

So was I.

Marciano turned the music low and pointed in the distance. “That place is…” He rubbed a hand over his arm, meaning it didn’t sit right with him, and it was making goosebumps rise on his skin.

A fork in the road led to an old barn. It looked picturesque on the property, even though it probably should have been condemned years back.

It felt off to me too, beyond the look of it. It was the fucking feel of it, like it was immersed in dark winter, even with the sun hitting it.

People called our mamma touched, our sister as well. Even though none of Scarlett Fausti’s sons spoke about it, we were all a little touched too. I hadn’t realized how much until Sistine came into my life. Whatever extra sense I was born with woke up when my heart did.

“That the Rattler property?” Marciano’s eyes were narrowed underneath his sunglasses. I could tell by the set of his eyebrows.

I narrowed mine, which were covered in sunglasses too. “Yeah, that’s it.”

It smelled like herded cattle. Fear and shit.

My eyes glanced in the rear-view mirror.

Angelo was quiet. Pensive. His shades were dark too.

He hadn’t caught any punches to the face, and I knew Marciano had done that on purpose.

He didn’t want him to look back years from then and see a black eye, bruised noise, or busted lip on his wedding day. Angelo was limping slightly, though.

Once we were in front of Jack’s tiny place, I hit the brake and put the truck in park.

Before we could step out, Jack came out of his place.

He narrowed his eyes against the glare, even wearing a cowboy hat.

He took a sip of his coffee, his boots clacking against the wooden porch, coming to stand against one of the pillars.

He lifted his coffee to us when he realized we were friendlies. I took that as a sign of our welcome.

My boots landed in a muddy puddle when we all stepped out. Two horses were grazing, and I ran my hand up and down both of their muzzles, up to their foreheads, after they set them down for me to touch. I met Jack on the porch after, Marciano and Angelo on either side of me.

“Jack Nelson.” He held his hand out to me.