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“I shot at you,” I reminded him. At first, the comment had just slipped out, but this time, I was reminding him of the truth —he wanted my husband dead, and in no uncertain terms, that meant he wanted me dead too. “I would do it again.”

He grinned. “You have said this before.” He seemed to be ignoring the fact that I said I would do it again. He called me something in Russian.

“What does that mean?” I asked and almost bit my tongue for doing so.

He winked at me. “You will have to find out.”

A second before the door was opened, he ran toward the balcony and disappeared. I ran behind him, the click of my heels against the marble lost in the fireworks that started again. I reached the balcony just as a splash of water shot up from the canal.

The door to my room burst open, and Remo stood in it, his eyes frantic as he seemed to search my room.

“I am here!” I shouted, rushing toward him, with all my might, burying the residual panic of the last…however long Iggy had been in my room.

Remo stepped into my room, fixing his dapper suit jacket. He wore a tuxedo and a mask reminiscent of the Phantom. It was half white, half black, a jagged line cutting through the center of the two colors.

“Your sister said she heard a male voice,” he said, and his nostrils flared before he took off for the balcony.

I hurried behind him, meeting him outside.

He spun on me. “I smell a male. Do not lie to me.”

I sighed. “I do not want my family to know. If they find out, they will call Mariano on purpose. He will break the agreement, and we will have to wait longer.”

His stern eyes bore into mine. He noticed that I had not truly answered him.

“Iggy,” I barely got out.

His eyes widened before he started to look me over, almost frantically.

“No. No.” I waved both of my hands. “He did not come here to hurt me. He came to tell me something.”

His eyebrow quirked up at this.

“He came to tell me…ah, he came to tell me, ah…he loves me.” I rushed the last three words out. I expected he would make a face, as if he did not believe me, but he did not.

He nodded, a serious look overtaking his face. “I am sure he does.” His eyes raked over my body.

These men were not ordinary in so many ways, and one of the most powerful tools in their arsenal was their eyes.

Whenever one of them looked over a woman in such a way, she could physically feel it, as if his hands had reached out and touched her.

Atta and I had both confirmed this, taking it from theory to fact.

I took a step out of reach, putting space between Remo and me.

“I better go,” I said. “I will be late.”

He nodded, but his eyes refused to leave mine. Then I heard my father shouting for me. My sister must have told him about the male voices. He came to a halt in front of my door, his eyes narrowing. I started for him.

Dannazione! I forgot about the waterlily Iggy had brought me. It was soaking wet, and we did not keep those flowers in the palazzo, so it might raise suspicion. I was debating on whether I should try to kick it underneath my vanity or leave well enough alone.

Remo was still on the balcony. His back was to me.

I caught something white going over the edge, drifting to the water in a slow rock.

When I looked back at the floor, there was no sign of the flower.

Remo must have picked it up after I went to the door.

Although the Fausti men seemed to be carved out of marble, they all moved like sneaky cats.

Remo turned, fixing his tuxedo, and came to meet me by the door. My father grumbled something, then told me it was time for me to leave the room.

As my father walked away, my eyes locked with Remo’s, and I mouthed, “ Grazie .”

“I did not do this for him,” he said, his tone cold. “I did this for you. I will take care of the shattered glass as well.”

For him.

He did not mean Iggy.

He meant my husband.

From my father being high on life, which was the same as saying the sun shone at night and the moon during the day, to the staring contests my sister and I were constantly engaged in…what a night it was turning out to be.

It seemed my dress infuriated my sister.

As did my entire existence.

She had designed a serpentine line of jewelry. I had designed a butterfly line.

I did not find the winged things particularly symbolic, but in that moment, I did find something close to my own life.

The metamorphosis of it. How much I was changing.

There were times I did not even recognize myself.

I was still making introductions between the old me and the new me—the two having core values to share.

However, I had gone with red to symbolize the fire inside of me. The burning that was turning parts of my life to ash, aiding in my metamorphosis.

My sister was in green to represent who she was: a creature like the snake in Rattler’s barn, its fangs out, constantly teasing me with its deathly poison.

However, the difference between my sister and the snake?

She was supposed to have a brain, a heart, a soul. She should have known better.

Her golden hair was pulled to the side. The snake jewelry she had designed, that I had created at my grandfather’s order, was wrapped around her throat, her arms. The eyes were made from emeralds. Her heels were gold.

She was such a beautiful woman.

Too bad her personality repelled me.

Perhaps that night, our chosen designs were indicative of who we were—I was a butterfly, constantly trying to better myself. My sister was cold blooded, and if a foot accidentally, or not, stepped on her, she would strike and kill.

“You look ridiculous,” she said to me as she passed with a glass of bubbly champagne. She parked her culo at the bar, a group of men surrounding her.

I rolled my eyes a second too late.

Remo’s bourbon scented breath washed over my shoulder. “She is jealous of you,” he said.

I looked at him. He was staring at her, then his eyes met mine. “Trust me,” he said. “I know these things.”

“I am sure you do.” I grinned.

He grinned back, then his eyes became serious. “Your husband was right when he told you that she is a woman who does not take much effort to obtain. She is, ah, the moment.”

“She is easy,” I said. “It is okay. You can say it.”

His head tilted back, and he roared with laughter. “ Sì ,” he said, sighing. “You are different, Sistine. If your sister is the moment, you are the woman for always.”

Our eyes connected, and I turned away from him before he could think much of it. He had grown harder and softer at the same time since that day. Harder to the world. Softer when it came to me. I did not want him to think there was anything between us. I did not feel that way about him.

“I am hungry, cousin ,” I said, taking the conversation in an entirely new direction.

“I am not your cousin.” He nodded toward the food, and we went in that direction.

He rarely left me alone. I knew it was only going to get worse since Iggy appeared with his declarations of love.

Remo and I ate together. I was starved. As if I had not eaten in days.

I laughed at how some of the people were dancing, although I disguised it well, asking him to name some of the moves. Remo grinned, throwing back his bourbon, playing along.

“Tell me,” he sighed, “what is that move called.” He chucked his chin in a direction, but he did it so smoothy, no one could ever tell he was referencing a couple on the dance floor, moving like…

“Chickens. The funky chicken.” I copied it, flapping my arms.

He set his glass down quickly and roared with laughter.

We both laughed.

“I will get you a drink as well.” He was about to grab me a glass of champagne.

“No,” I said, catching him with the one word before he moved. “I am good. Grazie .”

He studied my face. “You are glowing.”

I smiled. “New makeup.”

“I do not think so,” he said, but he left it alone, his eyes going back to the dancers. He rolled his shoulders. “Let us dance.”

“Ah,” I breathed, buying time. I did not think this was such a good idea.

“My time is up. I would rather go back to my room.” I looked at the dancers again.

“Do you think he went to Matteo and Stella’s wedding in Paris?

” I had been thinking of it all night. Matteo and Stella were having a wedding in Paris on New Year’s Eve, and I accepted that Mariano would go. He was not as sequestered as I was.

I was, basically, a prisoner inside of these walls.

“Sistine,” Remo called.

I turned to face him.

He rolled his shoulders again. “No, I do not think so.”

“His brother’s wedding…”

“This is a second wedding.” He cleared his throat. “I would not leave you to travel that far. It is what I would do.” He said the words, then stood, fixing his tux, before he helped me to my feet, about to walk me back to my room.

My father called me for one last photo opportunity.

I gave Remo an apologetic smile and told him to wait for me by the table.

There was no use in him standing around, doing nothing, while I had to smile stupidly for the camera.

He did not go back to the table, keeping his feet planted where he was, grabbing for another drink.

The photographer gave me direction on where to stand, and as the camera started to click, I noticed Capri standing close to Remo.

She nudged him in the ribs. He did not give her a reaction, which I could see was setting her off.

She was getting that mean look on her face, as if she was about to strike.

I did not even bid goodbye to whoever my father had introduced me to, people who would be in the picture.

I rushed toward the scene, then stopped in my tracks.

Remo started to dance with my sister.

This was his choice.