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Remo came back with the tray, and I suggested we sit outside on the balcony. We needed to be outside of the bedroom. Neither of us said anything as we ate. I mostly picked at mine while he devoured his.

Remo was no doubt a Fausti. He shared their powerful good looks and their commanding build. He was his father’s son without the scar Vincenzo wore. However. Remo Fausti was not Mariano Fausti, and although I enjoyed his company, my heart turned away from even the thought of him being next to me.

He was not my husband. Nor could he ever be.

I sighed, and it sounded wistful. I wished I could go back and erase the last hour or so from my life.

I did not want to hurt Remo, if that was where his intentions were headed.

I did not ever wish to have the ability to read people as Scarlett and Mia were able to, but I wished for it in that moment, so perhaps I could say something that would diffuse the situation if Remo’s feelings were going in that direction.

However, I did not think it took Scarlett or Mia’s ability to feel the protectiveness coming from the man sitting across the table from me.

I stood abruptly, not sure where to redirect the anxiety flowing through me suddenly. “I have been wanting to look at the room where my family stores old things,” I said, not even sure if that was worded correctly.

Remo stood directly after me, nodding.

It did not seem as if he was feeling my anxiety, or that he was choosing to ignore it. Fausti men were built different. These men felt everything, it seemed, or sensed it, especially from women, and even so, not much deterred them.

I was thankful that we were both quiet as we found the room used for storage. I started to dig through boxes, and so did Remo. He asked me if there was something I was looking for in particular.

“A picture,” I said. “A picture of my great-grandmother.”

It had felt imperative to me for some reason to find one.

My grandfather had told me that, if one still existed, it would have been in the storage room.

My grandfather also told me my father never liked my great-grandmother.

My father was never her favorite. Perhaps because she had tried to teach him the word no.

It felt so important for me to find a link to this family, because, despite being told they were mine, I never felt they were.

Remo cleared this throat. “You were pushed down the stairs.”

My eyes rose to meet his. “I, ah, I am not sure. You heard that?”

“Your mamma said so when she was dozing off after the shot. I did not understand how it could have been your sister, if you were the baby then. She is older.”

“Right,” was all I could say.

“Do you have any scars?”

Not any I could remember. The only scars were the ugly internal ones that had been caused. The ones that scabbed over the hurtful times I buried. Eventually, the top healed, but the wounds always felt hollow, as if one push would expose them again.

“I do not think so.” I shrugged.

Remo wiped his hands on his pants, and towering over me, ran his hand over my head. It was not a casual search. He stuck his fingers deep underneath my hair, loosening my bun.

I cleared my throat, wanting to move my head but afraid his fingers were going to get tangled.

“There.” He stopped behind my ear, but far enough onto my scalp that a scar would be hidden.

My hand shot to the spot, and I stood, moving his. A slight scar marred the skin there. One I had never found before. It was faint, but curved. Faint, but…somewhat concaved.

Then I remembered Mariano asking me about it when he seemed to be memorizing every wrinkle and line of my body. I told him it was nothing. I had never even felt it until he said something, and even after, I forgot about it.

“I am not surprised.” I caressed the scar. “She has not liked me since birth. I am pretty sure she brought new meaning to the older sibling wanting to take the younger back to the hospital after I was born.” I laughed but it sounded…forced, even to my own ears.

Remo seemed to stand taller, his shoulders stiffening, his entire body going rigid.

I slapped my hand down on a box, and a rolled-up piece of canvas squished underneath it. I removed it and tried to straighten it out, then unrolled it. It was a sketch of a woman I had never seen before, but I resembled her. So much, it was quite eerie.

Remo looked between us. “I am certain you have found the woman you have been searching for.”

“Yes,” I breathed out, barely running my hand over her face. “I do believe you are right.”

Remo turned toward a sound, ready to protect. My grandfather walked up a second later.

“Ah.” He entered the room. He looked over the sketch. “You found her.”

“Your mamma,” I said.

“ Sì. I sketched that of her myself.”

“Why haven’t you taken care of this?” I whispered.

He laughed a little, then shrugged. “Your grandmother did not get along with my mamma. Your father was not her favorite. He has resented her until this day. I thought it was best to keep whatever was left of her here. If your father knew this was here…” He shrugged, then left.

My eyes locked with Remo’s and he raised his eyebrows, as if to say, your family is just as ruthless as mine.

No kiddin’, as Atta would say.

For the next hour, Remo and I searched through the storage room, cleaning and sorting as we went, but there were no more traces of the great-grandmother who I resembled.

Though I felt more…complete to find the connection, it would have almost been a relief to find I was not related to these people, as awful as that made me sound.

I decided not to dwell on it. Remo told me an Oscar joke—their cousin, another soldier, looked just like Oscar the Grouch—and I exploded with laughter as we headed toward the kitchen.

We were both covered with dust but starving.

It seemed like a long time since breakfast. When I cut the corner, I ran into Capri, the murderess sister.

Her eyebrows shot up, and a conniving smile came to her face.

I had no idea where she had been for the last day or so, but it was clear to see she was in the same clothes she left in.

Her hair was a mess, and so was her dress.

She smelled like animal shit. I was going to point out the obvious, but she cut me off.

“Spending time alone with the help, ah?” She wiggled her eyebrows at me.

“No!” I took it down a notch. “Why did you try to kill me?” The question shot out as swift as a bullet from a gun.

A bullet she deftly dodged. “What are you talking about, you idiot?”

“You pushed me down the stairs.” Although I did not have proof, if she had done it, she would own up to it. Almost killing me was something she would be proud of.

She waved a hand. “You lived, unfortunately.” Her eyes met Remo’s before she turned them back to me.

“I will not be able to say the same about the help, once your husband finds out how close you two are getting. Pity .” She plucked a piece of hay from her hair.

“I was just with your husband. I could have filled him in if I had known.”

“Fucking liar,” I snarl-whispered, and Remo took the sketch from me, setting it around the area he kept his weapon tucked. I had not realized I was flattening it with my grip.

She laughed, then told me all about her trip.

Where Mariano lived ( Grosseto). She described his villa.

( Such a nice place! So rugged. He even has an outside alcove with a pool in front of it!) She told me his dogs’ names (Zeus and Apollo) .

She described the look of them ( white fur balls, Maremmano the breed)— and how friendly they were ( so friendly!).

His horse, the black one, she stayed away from because he liked to show his teeth and stomp his foot.

( The same as his rider!) She tittered at that.

“Ah, he is gorgeous! He had just finished a ride on that massive black beast.” She sucked in a breath.

“His shirt was off, and he was in his riding pants and boots. His hair was wild, and so were those green eyes. He is built.” She closed her eyes, then opened them with a pop.

A girlish, high-pitched sound came from her dirty mouth.

“The stallion on his chest…the lion on his back… outlaw .” She winked at me.

How would she know these things? Mariano had never taken his shirt off when she was around. She was not even there the day I shot at Iggy when Mariano had been bleeding.

“Ah,” she continued. “He does enjoy to bite! Nibble, at first, then…” She opened her dress and showed me her chest. It was smeared with dried blood. She had bruises. “My…I mean your—” she coughed sarcastically “—man enjoys marking himself and his woman with her own blood.”

The blood vow.

Mariano had done that after we made love for the first time.

Perhaps he had never made love to me. Perhaps the entire time he had been fucking me.

No. I refused to believe it. He could not tell a lie. I paused at that. Not that he could not, but it was beneath him to do so.

A little irritating voice inside of my head reminded me of the situation I’d chosen for us, planting a dark seed of doubt.

Was Mariano so disgusted with my decision to honor the rules that he would be with…? I made a gagging noise, and the sarcastic smile my sister wore tipped me over.

I went for her.

The surprise only lasted a second.

We were not slapping each other, we were punching.

“Do not be mad.” She had me pinned for a second. “I cannot help it if the entire situation with you was a ruse! This is my virginal blood on my chest. It smeared from his chest.”

I could have sworn I heard a cough, but I was too incensed to truly register it or care.

With a sound a fighting animal would make, I flung her off me.

I was on top, and I did not care to talk, only release the aggression that had been stewing inside of me since I could recognize it for what it was: toxic waste that was only poisoning me.

I was someone I did not recognize, and for the first time in that rich palazzo, I was the one on top of Capri Capella. Blind rage spurred me on.

Until I was being lifted. My arms were still swiping at air until I realized I was no longer punching something solid.

My sister wailed into my father’s chest, and he was looking at me as if I was the devil incarnate.

I did not care. No matter what I did, I was going to be treated as the one who did not belong.

The other Cappello woman. I finally figured out why with the sketch.

My father eyed me and saw my great-grandmother.

“Bitch!” my sister screeched at me. “ You tried to kill me when I was a baby!”

I called her stupid in Italian, rolling my eyes. “I am the baby. You tried to kill me. ” I went for her again.

My father pushed Capri to the side, coming at me, his hand raised. Remo set me behind him and crossed his arms, his muscles flexing.

He said two words. “Do it.”

My father glared at me, not him, and then, taking my sister by the arm, left us in the hallway.

Remo did not move for a second, as if he had to catch his breath or control his temper. Then he turned to me and said, “Let us eat.”