Primo Bruno was a fierce Italian fighter, and though he only got this gig because the other fighter had to bow out due to medical issues, the hype around him seemed to rise and grow.
A few boxer aficionados had dubbed him “the next Rocky Marciano” and “the one to watch.”
The MGM Grand was a huge arena for such a rookie fighter, but I deduced from the buzzing around me that this was the fight that Primo had trained his entire life for. His shot to fame. I wasn’t particularly interested in the sport—why anyone would want to get pummeled for any amount of money was beyond me—but I could respect boxers as athletes.
Brando kept my hand tight in his as we navigated through the rows looking for our reserved seating. A group of men sitting in their seats clapped and let out high-pitched whistles as we passed.
“The Faustis!” one guy, around our age, yelled out. He was already drunk.
This statement seemed to make heads go flying in our direction. I hadn’t realized how popular the Fausti name was in America, not just Italy and in Europe.
The legendary Faustifamigliawas mentioned in music, numerous books had been written about them, shows had taken on the entire subject matter for an hour, movies had been loosely based on them, and in terms of American culture, they were the stuff criminal worlds were based on. All extremely good-looking men who held power and were capable of murder if that power was not relinquished to them.
Other than the whistles, Brando seemed unbothered by it. He had grown accustomed to the hype. It didn’t mean much to him. He had always known who he was. However, I found it almost astounding that so many people were interested in his family. I had no idea the extent of it until Rosaria had directed me along the path of knowledge on that front.
What was it about crime families that seemed to intrigue people? I found nothing romantic in getting your heart stolen out of your chest. In fact, it seemed pretty grim to me. Knowing how close Brando had come to the same fate made me shiver.
After we had all filed into the row, a photographer appeared and asked Brando for a picture. He wrapped his arm around my hip, his palm burning through the red silk dress, pulling me closer. The move was almost proprietorial.
He leaned in close, his mouth close to my ear. “It’s not the dress. It’s you. No matter what you wear, you draw attention. I picked out the fucking dress and I’m regretting it. You walk into the room and the entire place catches fire.”
He held on to me tighter, like that could fuse us together forever, and I was finding it hard to catch my breath. I couldn’t tell by the tone of his voice if he was truly irritated or not. But he searched my body in a way that made my cheeks go hot.
The dress was simple, a ruby silk that reminded me of a long slip. He had bought a pair of gold, open-toed heels to match. I upped the glamour with diamond bangles Brando had bought for me and the necklace my father had given me years ago. It was a single diamond that rested against my jugular notch. It had been my paternal grandmother’s. My hair had a center part and spilled down the front of the dress in long waves.
After he released me, his stare lingered, even after he’d looked away. Lou excused herself as she bypassed us along the seat. I smiled. She didn’t try to bite Guido’s hand off for keeping it on her lower back as she did. He had bought her a strapless leopard-print dress. I was still surprised that he had gotten her size right without asking.
“Is that a Fausti trick?” I asked Brando. “Getting a woman’s dress size right?”
“And ring size.”
He took my hand in his and then leaned over to kiss my cheek. Not long after, the match started, and every man in close radius seemed to buzz with testosterone from the fight.
Eunice had taken a seat next to my parents, since Burgess was down on the floor, giving Primo tips after the bell rang.
The fight was tense. From the comments around me, I gathered that this was the kind of match worth the money. Every so often, something would happen that would send the men out of their seats, either clapping or complaining. It was hard not to get caught up in the excitement of it. I joined them on the ride.
A few times I’d ask Brando to explain the rules. He’d lean over, point at whatever it was I asked about, and tell me what was happening.
He set his hand over my knee, his temperature scalding. I had to look down to make sure the silk wasn’t melting. His thumb stroked. He met my eye when I looked up.
Leaning over, he moved the hair from my neck with a flutter of his hand. “I cannot stop thinking about you. The dress is coming off with my teeth,” he whispered in Italian. He snapped his teeth close to my ear and then gently took my lobe in his mouth.
I closed my eyes and tried to catch my breath again. Apparently, breathing was going to be a struggle tonight. Another roar rose from the crowd and Brando went up with it, leaving me bereft. I followed, not paying attention to anything but him and the promise of later. Even the match had lost its appeal.
A hand came around my arm and I went to yank it free by reflex. I turned to see who had my arm, and a whimper came from my mouth.
Ettore.
Brando went to move but stopped when I held my free hand up.
“He’s going to break my arm,” I said, breathless, “if you come any closer.” When Brando had started to move, the pressure on my arm increased. The message was clear and painful. Ettore would bring me to my knees if Brando took another step toward him.
“Listen to your wife, nephew. She is smart. I can snap her bone as though it is nothing but a twig.” He made a snapping noise with his mouth. “Order the men to stay where they are. I did not come to fight. Not tonight. I will let her go, no harm done, if you will listen. However, if those pissantscontinue to come closer, I will hurt her and damn the consequences.”
“Your word,” Brando said.
“My word.”
