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“I’m not accustomed to having to explain my truth, my behavior to anyone.

When I said you were it, the woman I would live and die for, made a blood vow to—that’s fucking it, do you understand?

Tell me you fucking understand.” I cleared my throat, tried to clear the gravel from it, but it refused to move.

“Your sister came here with one of her friends unannounced. She was waiting in the barn with the friend. Your sister jumped on my back. The friend jumped on Marciano’s back.

My sister ordered them off—that was it.” It wasn’t the fucking time, then or never, to mention that both women were naked.

I didn’t think it was a visual my wife needed.

“I called your father after, told him if she, or any of her friends, came back uninvited—that’s it.

Woman or not, her life is mine. Nothing, I mean fucking nothing, comes between us, understand ?

I never repeat myself for anyone. Tell me you understand . ”

She looked me in the eyes, taking my face in her hands, and kissed the spot she had bit, but I moved away from her.

“Please,” she whispered in Italian. “Do not look away from me, my husband.”

The name she had given me forced me to do as she said. I looked into her eyes.

She breathed out, then kissed my lip softly, attempting to mend the thread she had ripped out of our tapestry, as she had once called it.

The blood diamond glistened in the soft light, as if she wore the proof of our love on her left hand, a symbol of who she would always be to me. The gift fate had given me.

“What do I do, Mariano? How do I make this make sense between us?”

I sighed. “It doesn’t fucking have to,” I said. “As long as it exists, it’s ours, and nothing about it has to make sense, as long as we are confused together.”

She kissed my lip again, telling me how sorry she was, and I said it too.

The only person in this world I had ever apologized to.

Then I stopped her. “You never have to apologize to me,” I said.

“You. You’re the only one who can steal my heart and never have to utter a word to me, except to tell me you’ll always fucking be with me.

Whatever this is between us, you’ll keep it alive with me.

“You’ll never separate from me again. When we breathe, when we take a step, when we fucking fall, when we rise, we do it together. The fucking end. Simple in expression, but in theory, we’ll have to fight for it.”

“Yes,” she said simply. “This is what I vowed to do, and I meant—mean—every word. With every breath I take, I take it for what exists between us.”

“Amen.” I sighed.

We grew quiet, the only sounds our breathing, and drunken guests. The loudest was a man singing his heart out in Italian.

Sistine’s eyes widened. She clasped a hand over her mouth. “Is that…?”

I sighed. “Yeah.”

Dandolo.

No fucking doubt he was serenading Nino the Grouch’s wife. Mrs. Grouch. It seemed like he wrote a song for her, and he was referencing her enormous, glamorous, sensual curly wig.

“This is going to end fucking bad,” I said.

“So bad,” Sistine echoed. “Will Signor Dandolo be returning to Venice soon?”

“So soon,” I said. “I’m about to put him on a boat myself.”

Sistine laughed, and it was the first true laugh I’d heard from my wife in what felt like too fucking long. Her eyes almost danced with light, and then she sighed.

She ran a hand over the scar on my forehead. “What happened here?” she whispered. “I feel like I have missed so much in such a short time…I feel so left behind.”

Exactly. That was what I was trying to fucking say all along.

I closed my eyes to her touch, holding her closer, resting my head against her. “The wooden sign hanging over the entrance to the stable,” I said. “A storm must have knocked it lose. I was riding Guerriero and didn’t notice it. I hit it hard enough that it cracked, and I had a nice cut.”

“I did not notice.” Her voice was still soft. “I honestly thought I was dreaming. I feel this way often with you.” She kept kissing the scar over and over, speaking to me in Italian—telling me how much she loved me and wanted to heal me.

“You.” My voice was rough. “Just you.” I cleared my throat. “The laughing.”

She stilled for a second, and I rubbed my head against her. Her touch was healing me, and I never wanted her to fucking stop. She started again.

“The laughing?”

I held her tighter, and she gasped. “At the banquet.” If I added more to it than that, I was going to go after Remo and seriously wound him.

“Ah,” she said, realizing. “I am a good pretender when it comes to the world, Mariano. Remo kept me safe, but still, I was sick inside. Sick inside because you were not with me. So sick that it reached the outside. Except for the ardor I felt somewhere deep inside of me. A small fire… I did not feel so alone, perhaps. It was as if a physical part of you was with me. Ah, it is hard to explain, but I can say this with true clarity: I am so thankful to be a woman so I can experience it.”

“ Bene, ” I barely got out, not sure what else to fucking say to that. I was thankful she was a woman too. I was a man. We were created for each other.

We grew quiet again, appreciating the silence, being lost in it, being found in it. We were together. All restraints off. Fate had spoken. Had given us the most romantic yes as a gift—the two of us—always.

She sighed, and it sounded wistful. “When can we get to the mundane part of the story where I can complain about you leaving your things around? Your socks on the floor, a shirt not in the hamper, dirt on your boots that made it into the villa...”

Her comment was so unexpected, I exploded with laughter, bringing us both down to the bed. I made a frustrated noise, kissing her, pulling her even closer. She started to crack up when I stuck my finger in her side. She stuck me back. I growled. Then there was a moment where the world stopped.

Fucking stopped.

Our eyes connected.

“You will not do this, will you?” She almost pouted. “Leave your stuff around.”

“I was taught not to, but for you—yeah, I will.”

She smiled, fixing my hair. “I will still cook for you, feed you, my hungry, growling lion, wash your clothes…”

“I can do those things too,” I said. “All but the feed-me part. I can cook, but basic things. I was always there and then running. Food came after the fact.”

“No longer,” she breathed out. “You will sit at our table and enjoy your food. And I know that you can do all of this yourself, but I want to do those things for you. Just as you do the dirty or heavy things around the house, refusing to allow me to.” She searched my eyes.

“I will complain at times, but I will secretly love to do these things for you.”

I set my head against her forehead. “ Ti amo , Sistine Evita Fausti.”

Before she could reply, I set my mouth against hers, kissing her. It was a kiss that stopped the world—my world. I wasn’t racing but settling into arms that were my home.

I made love to my wife all night long, and after the sun came up, she fell asleep on my chest—snoring. I had never heard her do that before. It wasn’t loud, more of a vibration, but it was enough that I knew she was so comfortable, she was home too.