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“You will not be standing for long—you will die like the coward you are.”

Ash was still breathless from the choke hold, but he rallied, putting his dukes up, like he was only going to be fighting.

There was a reason why we mostly only fought each other. Not many men could stand against our blows.

My father was going to kill him with his fists.

Ash struck out, and my father allowed him to land the blow. Later, when he was alone with mamma, he’d use this as leverage for her to make over him, put her hands on him in sympathy, or she’d become incensed about the entire situation and the two of them would fight it out.

Either way, both scenarios would lead them to the bed.

The grin my father usually would’ve worn wasn’t there. He was as cold as a block of ice, but inside, his blood ran as hot as lava. I knew this—I was his son. I felt the same way. Except I could feel the blood we shared running down my back, almost scalding my skin.

The dead men behind me started cheering for their old man. They thought he had this. That, somehow, they were going to win.

Maybe because they’d always won before.

Their cheers died when my old man started to get in hit after hit. He was, literally speaking, beating the shit out of Ash Green. It didn’t take long before he was on the floor, his eyes open but not seeing. The ice blue was almost fucking eerie in the glow of the dim barn light.

My old man stared at him, and before he walked over to me, he spit on the dead man’s back, right where he’d sliced me open. He looked at my back and his eyes became even more furious. When he turned to look at the dead men behind us, they all shifted uncomfortably.

They’d probably never seen a man fight like my old man, to the point where he killed another man with a few lethal punches.

My grandfather’s eyes almost seemed to glow when he looked at my father. He was proud of him.

My throat was clogged with warring emotions—my father had killed that man because he’d touched me, and the fire in my own veins was boiling over for my own adversaries.

I turned, and a vision of my wife and her cousin assaulted me.

Sitting in those same spots. Atta terrified in this barn, not for her own life, not for the foulness that was being done to her body, but for that of my wife and her brother.

The terror both women felt when they saw each other.

Atta knowing what was planned for my wife, and my wife knowing what had been done to her cousin—to a certain degree.

My wife sticking her chin up in defiance and not allowing that motherfucker to break her. And he was going to try to fucking break her as he had been broken.

He couldn’t stand a woman whose spirit was stronger than his, because he was a weak boy who played with dangerous toys to get his cock hard.

Some would be sympathetic to his case. Well, he was abused ... He had a choice. He could either be like his old man or walk away. He chose the path of no redemption. He had abused. Bullied. Tortured. Killed.

“Not with that, sir,” came Rattler’s voice, strong for all that.

Nonno had picked up Ash’s whip and was holding it. All the dead men’s eyes were narrowed on the snake-looking strip of leather.

“You do not get to decide how to die,” my grandfather said. “This choice is for a man. Not for slop. Now, if you can, attempt to redeem yourselves by standing like men.”

My grandfather doled out the punishments.

I’d fight Rattler, and Angelo would steal his heart.

What Rattler had done to Atta was worse on the scale of offenses.

Didn’t make me any less bloodthirsty. The coward had split my wife’s skin open.

She bled on this dirty fucking floor, just as I was bleeding on it.

I hoped my blood would find hers and coat it, our DNA linked for all time, mine wrapped up with hers, protecting it.

At the end of the night, all enemies had been destroyed, and the snake barn went up in flames—taking with it the hell on earth that it once was.

The car was filled with the scents of smoke and blood. It was still nighttime, but it was softened by the oncoming light. Everyone in the SUV—my grandfather, my father, Marciano, Zio Romeo, and Angelo—were quiet as Donato drove.

We all had our own thoughts to contend with.

The SUV came to a crawl along the road leading to the ranch.

Donato easily braked and put it in park, turning the ignition off when we reached the main house.

None of us said anything as we stepped out.

Not a sound was made, even though doors were shutting.

I walked with my family toward the cottages.

Close enough, doors opened, and women stepped out. Atta paused and then ran to Angelo. He wrapped her up in his arms and carried her back inside.

My grandfather took it all in with eyes that were softening with the night.

His romantic blood was serenading him. “This,” he said in Italian, his voice rough and low.

“This is why a man is called to honor. The romance is our reward.” He began to sing, his voice lower than usual.

My grandmother met him at their door and invited him inside, her hand outstretched.

Marciano sighed, going alone to his cottage.

My father looked at my back, the heat in his eyes starting to return.

Mamma looked between the two of us, her eyes narrowed.

I knew once she noticed my back, she was going to want to take care of me.

I raised my hand in an I’m all right gesture.

She fiddled with the tie of her robe, debating with herself.

My father barely touched my shoulder. Then he went to mamma and said something in her ear.

She shut her eyes and nodded. Papà had probably said something along the lines of, “Allow his wife to take care of him.” Papà guided Mamma into their cottage and shut the door.

Mia was waiting for Rio, and even though he offered to clean my back, I declined his offer.

“I’m good,” I said.

He nodded and went to my sister.

Padrino nodded at me. “If your father had not killed that coward, your mamma would have.”

I nodded at that, too, thinking back on the time my old man went after the sheriff of Natchitoches when he’d twisted Matteo’s ear.

It had been a long time coming, but it all played out on the playground.

My old man didn’t fuck around when it came to his.

Padrino was right. Neither did mamma. She would have twisted the sheriff’s ear in retaliation if it wasn’t for my old man being there.

I gave a curt nod to Donato as I made my way toward a line of trucks belonging to the ranch.

My phone lit up.

My wife.

She had sent me a picture from earlier that night. She and I together at the bar. I was holding her around her waist, and she was gazing at my face. I was gazing at her. She had sent a few of them. She had added music to the montage. The melody of it was haunting.

I made a noise in my throat, not able to stop the thoughts haunting me, the song from the montage giving them background noise.

The thoughts of that cold night, my wife driving alone on the roads, her hot temper and flip mouth pissing off a cold-blooded killer.

The venomous snake in her face. Her cousin—my cousin’s heart.

What had happened to Atta. How she had saved my wife from a similar fate.

The fear both women must have experienced…

The timing of the bison…

Suddenly, it felt as if my wife was on the other side of the world, hidden from me again, and I couldn’t get to her fast enough.

My plan had been to hot-wire one of the ranch’s trucks and use it to drive to our cabin. I’d run it instead.

I’d run by the light of the moon.

Remo had left the barn before we did. He had escorted my wife to our cabin. She demanded to go.

Our property slowly inched forward, and close enough, I stopped, wiping sweat from my brow. I walked the rest of the distance to our place, relieving Remo and men of their duties for the night—for the day. If my grandfather didn’t issue an order, I’d be with my wife all day in our cabin.

My feet refused to move when my eyes found her.

My Sistine.

A religious experience.

My Annie.

Created for me.

After the men were gone, she rushed out of the cabin, stopping short right outside of the threshold of the door. Her hair was wild. Her eyes were wide, though I could tell she was exhausted. She carried a quilt around her shoulders.

Underneath, she was naked.

Her eyes took me in like she thought she’d lost me, and suddenly, there I was. Her man standing in front of her—wearing not only the blood of her enemies, but blood he had shed in her honor.

“I have taken care of the snakes,” I said in Italian. “You do not have to be afraid any longer, my heart.”

In the glow of the light on the porch, I could see two crystal teardrops glide down her cheeks. She pulled the quilt tighter around her shoulders. Her skin was pale in the waning moonlight. Her lips rosy.

She rushed down the steps, coming to stand in front of me, her breath smelling of whiskey again.

She tilted some as a breeze swept past us.

Her hair invaded her face, and I had to control the impulse to touch her.

To remove anything that stopped my eyes from connecting with hers. I was covered in blood.

Her hand came up and tenderly touched my eye. I had allowed the dead man to get a punch in. She shook her head. “If he was not dead,” she whispered, but it was fierce, full of fire from her unbreakable spirit, “I would kill him again.”

I would kill him again.

This woman understood what it meant for me to be a Fausti.

She had used I but she’d meant me, her husband and protector.

She was giving me the honor of killing in her name again.

I protected her. Her heart knew it and accepted it.

She could send me into battle, into a war I knew I couldn’t win, with just a point of her accusing finger.

Our eyes locked.

“I am not afraid of anything but losing you, Mariano Leone Fausti,” she whispered in Italian with more conviction than my heart could take. “Mariano Leone Fausti, my husband.”

A shuddering breath left my mouth.

It was uncontrolled.

Wild.

My cock hardened to the point of being fucking painful. I’d never felt this way about a woman before. Never had my cock felt like it would tear through my skin just to connect with her body.

This woman owned me.

Eyes.

Heart.

Soul.

Body.

In an explosion of light, just like I’d seen the day I’d found her, she wrapped her arms around my neck, almost desperate to bring her body as close to mine as possible.

She knew.

She was acting out my own needs as they ripped through her.

Everything in life we shared.

Ours.

A breath escaped my mouth when her warm hand touched my neck. The whip had hit me all along my back, up to the tip of my neck. I hadn’t felt it before. I felt it when she touched me out of something other than malice.

Something greater than love.

In that moment, healing.

The kind of healing that goes down to the soul.

She noticed, trying to pull away, trying to see why. I refused to allow it. Her skin next to mine felt like air, and I swore if I couldn’t be inside of her, my home , I would die.

I picked her up and carried her inside.