Page 88

Mariano

I felt unnerved all morning, like a million voices were whispering in my ear and I couldn’t fucking understand one of them.

Usually racing of any kind helped clear my head.

Even sparring with one of my brothers, but the only one available was Marciano, and as of late, he had been my punching bag, even though he always gave as good as he took.

I had been extra wound up, though, and the fight had to be called a few times.

We would have killed each other.

The thought of my wife telling me to go easy on her didn’t sit right with me. Neither did the fucking bruise on her hip.

I was heading toward that cliff again. I yearned for Guerriero to fling me over it, but my instincts were too ingrained in me. He had fooled me once. He never would again.

I would have to let go on purpose.

I turned him in another direction, going for a long stretch of beach, but a whistle came at me from a distance. My old man. I narrowed my eyes at him. He was sitting atop one of the Maremmano horses. I spurred Guerriero forward, knowing something had to be wrong for him to be looking for me.

My old man was not all that fond of horses, though he could ride. He could wield a sword on one too. Not as good as me, he always said. It was not said in malice or as a challenge. He usually pulled my head in when he said this. He was proud of me.

It was not pride I saw on his face then. His eyebrows were drawn down, and the set of his lips were severe.

I spurred Guerriero even faster, until he was circling my old man on his horse. My old man’s horse, Chaplin, had never been comfortable with Guerriero. Chaplin was a calm soul, so he took steps back, and my old man held onto the reigns tighter.

“Visitors,” he said. “Benedetto Dandolo and Flavio Capella. Mamma is with them. Marciano is with her. Your grandfather has been called as well.” He lifted his hands. “This is all I know.”

Maybe I nodded. Maybe I didn’t.

Guerriero kicked up sand and dust as we raced back to the stables.

I dismounted him before he even came to a complete stop.

I gave him a whack on his ass, and he snorted at me but went into his area, where I secured him in.

I was the only one who could deal with the murderous horse.

My old man jumped off Chaplin, moving faster than most men his age.

“Go,” he said. “I’ll make sure Guerriero is secured in his stable. Then I’ll get Chaplin settled.”

“Guerriero is good,” I said. Then I whistled. One of my grooms peeked his head out from the other side of the stable. “Chaplin.”

The groom nodded and took Chaplin from my old man.

He fell into step with me, and we hauled ass back to the villa.

My heart was pounding in my chest. If one of these men came to tell me something had happened to my wife, three men were going to lose theirs—Flavio, Benedetto Dandolo, and Oscar.

Not before I killed the people they loved most first.

Then…

I could not live without her.

I took a deep breath when I entered our home. It was already hers. Ours. Dandolo got to his feet, about to extend his hand to me.

“My wife,” I said.

Dandolo held up his hands. “Did one of your men get sick? The one you traded for the position, ah, Oscar, I believe is his name is?”

“Remo.” Mamma wrung a dish towel out in her hand. I didn’t fucking like that either. She was nervous. On edge. Maybe feeling something that might impact the rest of my life. “The food poisoning.”

My hand was around Dandolo’s throat before I gave it the conscious demand to do so. The lion in my heart had turned me into an animal. An animal that could scent the blood pumping through his heart. I longed to feel the fast race of it cease. To feel him bleed out on my hands.

He was all about fate and following it.

He was close to meeting his.

“My wife,” I said in Italian this time, “ Signor Dandolo.”

He touched my hand frantically, not even slapping at it, before I set him down on his feet.

He clutched his throat, trying to catch his breath, before Sistine’s father helped him to the seat that Mamma must’ve offered them.

Dandolo attempted to talk but had to drink first. Mamma handed him a glass of water.

He took it with thanks. His voice was still rough when he spoke.

“Signor Fausti, your wife is in the hospital but getting better.”

“Getting better,” I repeated.

My old man didn’t touch me, neither did my brother, but I felt their presences around me.

“Why didn’t anyone call us?” mamma said.

My eyes turned on her. She could have felt this. She shook her head at me. She hadn’t. Then my father stepped in front of her, blocking her from my view. I turned my eyes back to Dandolo and Sistine’s father.

“We were all sick,” Flavio said, his tone defensive. “We all had food poisoning. This is why Signor Dandolo asked you this about your man.”

Dandolo cleared his throat. “I did not mean to cause you distress, Signor Fausti. Sistine is still sick, but she is improving with fluids.”

All I could do was stand there. If I moved, I was going to kill one of these men. All of these men. The only clear thoughts I had were getting to my wife and not harming my blood. I wasn’t sure if I was capable of the distinction.

Dandolo braved my silence by going on. He said Sistine had asked Oscar to call him. She was taken to the hospital, where she was still getting fluids and recouping. There was more.

“Sistine is pregnant,” Flavio said. “This is why she is still sick. The doctor believes it is a severe case of morning sickness. Perhaps brought on by the food poisoning. She should be better by the time of the maze, however?—”

I didn’t give him a chance to finish. His skin was puce, and he still looked like he was recovering, and it wasn’t much of a challenge, but I was going to drain the life out of him if my demands were not met.

“Signor Fausti,” Dandolo pleaded with me, “please, unhand him!”

“This is how this is going to go. Fate rarely walks in a straight line. Twists. Turns. It happens every day. It has been happening for centuries. My wife being pregnant changes things.” I increased the pressure, and Flavio started to wheeze, drooling on my hand.

“If my wife insists on this, fucking fine, but she’s sequestered in our home.

Here. Dandolo, you will stay here, in the comfort of our home.

I’ll stay in one of the groom’s properties. ”

“Whatever you wish!” He lifted his trembling hands.

“Whatever my wife wishes,” I said.

“Yes!”

“ Bene ,” I said, squeezing just a little tighter, “I’m glad we can see eye to eye on this.”

I let go of Sistine’s father abruptly, and he fell to the floor. I stepped over him as if he was worth nothing, the best part of him mine, going for the door.

“Signor Fausti!” Dandolo called after me. “I did not tell you which hospital.” He told me where she was. She was moved to Tuscany after she was stabilized in Venice. Dandolo thought I would want her close.

“It’s fucking unnecessary to tell me,” I said. “I know where my wife is at all times, without anyone telling me.” I touched my heart. “Fate, ah?”

His throat bobbed when he swallowed. He touched his heart. “Fate.”

It wasn’t his impassioned reaction to what I’d said that sent my blood freezing through my veins and my feet to still.

It was my mamma. The look on her face. It was as frozen as I was.

Then heat surged and melted the ice. I was hauling ass to get to my wife, but an uneasy sensation settled in the pit of my stomach, one that wouldn’t subside until whatever was going to happen, happened.

And, end of story, wherever my wife went, I would follow, even if I had to fight hell to get back to her.

My wife had a three-day stint in the hospital before she was released.

She looked somewhat pale and thinner, but looking back on the night I went to her in Venice, she had looked thinner then too.

Her being pale could be from the sickness, and it being winter, but it didn’t detract from the inner sun she seemed to have inside of her.

She was still glowing.

Grinning at nothing out of the car window, keeping her hands close to her stomach, daydreaming, getting lost in the scenery. Sometimes her eyes would slowly dance to mine, and when I would meet her stare, she would blink at me and then turn her face away.

Dandolo sat in the back seat with Oscar’s mamma, who was a doctor. I insisted she stay with us.

“For how long?” Dr. Rizzo had quirked a thick eyebrow up when she came to the hospital to check on my wife.

“For however long,” I said, not committing to a date.

Her husband, Nino, had been a solider, her son, Oscar, was a solider, and both were staying on our property, so it wasn’t a fucking deal.

Dandolo kept staring at the woman almost as if he was possessed.

His eyes seemed frozen on her hair. It was black and silver and wild with curls.

She had so much of it, it was touching the roof of the car.

Nino didn’t look like much and wasn’t the best solider the Fausti family had ever seen, but compared to Dandolo, the true romanticist, he could harm the man.

I slowed the SUV to a crawl in front of the villa in Grosseto, and Apollo and Zeus came running out to greet us.

They were barking, running in circles. Mamma came out, a dish towel in her hand, Papà right behind her.

Mamma said she didn’t want to take over Sistine’s kitchen, but she felt after all she’d been through, she was going to cook for us and freeze the dinners.

For that night, she was going to bake fresh Italian bread and cook her famous lemon chicken soup. It was Mia’s favorite, especially after she had her two sons and daughter, and Mamma thought Sistine would like it too.