Page 73

Sistine

I f we had neighbors, they would have called the cops.

Not on my husband. On me . The drive to our cabin had been silent, but as soon as Mariano had set me on my feet, my temper had gotten the best of me, and I began to yell.

I was not sure if I was shouting in English or Italian.

Most definitely a mixture of the two. My temper rolled through me as if it were a freight train.

Mariano omitting a partial truth was the ever-expanding tracks.

His back was straight and his arms were crossed over his chest. Not much fazed him, but I could tell by the bulging vein in his forehead that he was recording every word in that fast-working mind of his. He did not move when we were in our bedroom. He found a spot—our doorway—and blocked it.

“Why did you not tell me this!?” I shouted at him, grabbing whatever clean clothes I could find in the closet.

He waved a hand at me.

“Now is not the time to clam up, Mariano Fausti!” Perhaps my father did not look like much compared to his family, but he was formidable.

He memorized rules and how to use them like a fiend.

He knew how to fight the Fausti family without shedding his own blood.

He utilized the power of the pen. “Talk to me!”

“I’m not going to fight to be heard.” He shrugged. “You’ll either give me a chance to speak or continue on.”

I made a frustrated noise at him, clutching the clothes so hard that, if they had necks, I would have strangled them to death. I wanted him to lose control. Fight with me over this. This was important!

“Your life is important!”

“I never said it wasn’t,” he said calmly.

“What are you saying then?” My voice, contrary to his, was not calm.

“You can’t see it right now. You’re blinded by your own rage.”

“Rage?” I barely breathed out. “That is not what this is, Mariano Fausti!” I did a complete about face and headed into the bathroom, flinging the clothes on the counter. I attempted to count to ten, to ease the burn that was irritating my temper, but it did not cool.

Mariano was crowding the bathroom doorway when I opened my eyes.

“You should rethink being that close to me,” I barely got out.

He seemed to grow even taller as he opened his arms, as if to say, take your best shot, Annie. Or would he call me baby to anger me even further?

I had purchased a pot for eucalyptus. As fast as I could, I swiped it from the counter and flung it at him. He was too damn fast! He dodged just in time. It hit the floor with a resounding crash and basically went splat , if clay pieces could do so.

I lifted my chin at him. “You dare me to and then you move!”

He came at me and we met halfway, our bodies crashing into each other’s. I set my hands against his chest, pounding as if I was a damsel in distress, and it felt good to take the anger out on him this way.

How could he do this to me?

How could he put himself in jeopardy knowing what he had become to me?

Everything!

How could he dare fate over a term—a label.

Wife.

He did.

He put his life on the line to say it! To prove to the world that I was his and he was mine.

This was exactly what I did not want to happen. I did not want a man to depend on for my heart to keep beating. I did not want to depend on anyone but myself. I had never had anyone before. Anyone but my aunt, my cousins, and a woman who considered me one of her grandchildren.

However, they did not live in Italy, and the only time I spent with them was on vacation.

Sì , a vacation from the blues with my family in Italy.

Perhaps I had wished for the months to turn into years, but magic was for witches who believed she could turn minutes into centuries with her magic.

I was not a strega , even if my eyes were wise and my laugh cackled when I was nervous.

My time on the ranch had always been temporary.

A brief reprieve from my life in Italy. I had never allowed myself a place inside of the scene.

I kept to the outskirts of it. The pain of accepting a life that was not mine was too great to even consider, especially since I knew from the beginning that my time was limited.

In that moment, I might have been crazed, but the truth cut through my red fog.

Mariano Leone Fausti had become my scene.

The perfect one.

My life.

I was deep into our scene with him, the scene the quilt would one day show to the world—he and I, our children, if God allowed it, and all the time we would spend together. The places we would go. Our hearts would start out as two, but the closer one peered at it, they would notice.

Only one heart remained.

We shared it.

If he was torn away from me…

I shook my head, my heart feeling as though it would beat out of my chest at the mere thought of it.

It was not easier to think of me tearing my heart away from his first, but I would rather do the leaving than be left behind.

I could not stand this life without him in it, now that I knew what it meant to have all mine .

“Stop thinking it!” he roared.

I blinked up at him. He had my wrists trapped in his hands and he was staring at me as if we shared a mind. He had read my thoughts.

“You pulled away from me,” he snapped. “I will not allow it. I will not allow it! You are mine . You pull away from me, you fucking rip the heart from my chest.” He set one of my hands there, and I realized he was speaking in two languages as well. “If you’re going to do it, fucking do it.”

“How could you do this?” I barely got out. I hated the pleading note in my tone. I could not deny it. I could not deny the truth, damn it! I could not deny that if something were to happen to him, I would suffer the worst fate a woman could suffer. I would be lost in this world without him.

So lost.

“My heart cannot take it,” I whispered. My head, all the weight inside of it, overflowing from my heart, fell against his chest. All of this was much too heavy to carry alone.

I needed him. Needed him so much, it frightened me to my core.

“Look at me, Sistine.”

It took me a minute to do so. His stare had always been penetrating, and I would get used to it.

How deep he could go inside of me. However, this time, I had to acclimate again.

I had to allow his searching gaze to go farther than he had ever gone before.

He had found a secret spot where I had buried all the fear and resentment, and for the first time, I wiggled away from it.

I attempted to take my wrists from the sudden shackles that were his hands.

“‘ That is not what this is, Mariano Fausti .’” He was repeating what I had said to him in the heat of battle.

He held tighter to me when I kept trying to wiggle.

“Tell me, my wife,” he said in Italian, refusing to let me go, refusing to soften the penetration of his gaze.

“If it is not rage, what is it you are feeling.”

“I do not have to tell you a damn thing, Mariano Fausti!”

He rolled his teeth over his bottom lip, and even though I was fighting it, he moved us toward the wall, setting my back against it. “Try again,” he said, using his knee to part my thighs.

A traitorous, trembling breath left my mouth at the power his body had over mine.

All but my hands in that moment. I was still attempting to fight him.

Breaking a sweat, although it seemed as if he were standing in a wintry wonderland.

Underneath the surface of his skin, he was running hot, his palms almost scalding me.

However, his demeanor was cool, aloof almost, except when I looked into his eyes.

The peridot was drained out, forced out by black. It made him look almost wicked.

Outlaw.

This was the reason the word was tattooed on his back. These men never lied about who they were—never lied, period.

My answer did not come quick enough. He pinned my wrists above my head, his body so close to mine, I was overheated and sweating. I made a frustrated noise that ripped through my chest.

“Fuck.” He stilled against me.

That one word… It had tasted sweet in his mouth, I could sense it. It was the sweet taste of surrender he was after, and he received it from me.

“Fear,” I whispered.

His eyes turned down, softer now, more yielding. He would form his look into whatever he felt I needed from him.

I only needed…him.

“You stubborn ass,” I barely got out. A sob exploded from my throat, and this time, when my hands went for him, he released me.

I clung to his clothes, holding on for dear life, wishing it was his skin I could sink my hands into, all the way to his racing heart.

“I am terrified of losing you! Can you not see? You are all I have! All I have. All I ever want! Need !”

“Fuck,” he said, and his voice sounded as strangled as mine. He began to kiss me while I released all of my deepest fears to him. He seemed to drink them down, even if they were poisonous, though they did not poison him. He seemed to grow stronger with all my weaknesses so he could conquer them.

“You love me,” he said, his voice deep and breathless.

“I do.” I flung myself into his embrace. He picked me up, my legs going around his waist, and we kissed. “I love you so much, Mariano Fausti! That word is not enough. What do you say when even one heart between two people does not seem as though it is enough? I do not know! Only God knows!”

We kissed as if our last breath depended on each other, each of us giving the other the breath of life.

“You have no idea what you fucking do to me,” he rasped out. “I can’t fucking control it. It’s the wildest thing I have ever felt in my life. I can’t fight it. I can’t live without it. It’s mine .”

He stopped walking. I realized then we had been moving toward the shower.

This time, instead of his eyes taking from me, he was giving to me. His eyes were solid on mine. “If it’s in my power, I’ll do all I have to do to keep us both safe.”

“I keep you safe as well.” My voice was thick and sharp. “I will always have your back, Mariano Fausti.”

“My front too,” he said, his voice matching mine.

“All sides.” I nodded.

“My heart and soul,” he said. “That’s what you keep safe.”

“Whatever I have to do.”

His eyes locked on mine. “Fuck if I deserve you, Sistine Fausti, but fuck if anyone will come close to mine.”

He kissed me again, and before I realized it, we were in the shower. I do not remember much of it. All I remember was him. I was dazed when the cool air hit me, and he began to dry me off.

“Clothes,” I said. “I did not?—

“You did.” He pointed to the counter. When I had stormed our closet like an Italian tornado, I had snatched clothes for him and I. “Even when you’re pissed at me, Annie, you still love me.”

I grinned a little, fixing his hair. Then my heart sank when I remembered the conversation with my father and what it meant for us. Mariano picked me up, carried me over the broken pottery, and set me in bed. I lifted the covers, and he slid in beside me.

Our bodies seemed to come together at once.

We faced each other.

He searched my face, his hand caressing my skin, concentrating on my lips.

“This is going to be over soon, my Annie,” he whispered.

He took my hands in his, almost cradling them.

He cleared his throat. “When something would go wrong in life, Mamma would go to the ends of the earth to protect Papà, and Papà would do the same for mamma. He’s left bodies in his wake when she was in trouble. ”

“This is us,” I whispered.

He cleared his throat and kissed my fingers. “Yeah, it is, but Annie—I don’t want you leaving to protect me. I don’t want to follow in their footsteps when it comes to how they did that to each other. It killed my old man. It killed mamma.”

“They are very much alive,” I pointed out.

“They are,” he agreed. “They heal each other. But the thought of you leaving me doesn’t sit right in my soul.

You’ll rip the heart from my chest. I’m not my father, and you’re not mamma.

My old man would grin at this, in that sarcastic fucking way he has, but I’m going to speak my truth.

Or maybe I’m fucking weak where he was stronger.

You walking away from me would kill me. We’ll make a vow.

Here. Now. In the bed we’re making together.

Or the quilt, as you call it.” He waved a hand. “Wherever we go, we go together.”

“I’ll make this vow,” I said, kissing his fingers. “Only if you will vow to trust me with the entire truth from this moment forward. If I am moving with you, I can only move in the right direction if I know the correct direction we are moving in.”

“I won’t allow this fucking rule to rule us,” he said, his entire body going rigid, except for the bulging vein on his forehead. “It doesn’t have the fucking right.”

“You are not answering me, Mariano Fausti.”

“ Sì ,” he said simply.

“ Sì ,” I said. “I do not move unless you do.”

The next day, we moved together.

Back to Italy.