“I’ll be right behind you,” I said, squeezing his hand. “But today is not the day to—”
“Mitch,” he said. “How quick it happened. It made me think. We can’t decide how, or when, but while we’re here, I want to ask for one thing.”
I turned toward the altar, understanding. “I see,” I said, turning back to him. “Are you afraid to die,mio angelo?”
It took him a moment to answer as his eyes turned toward the altar.
“No.” The word was a breath. “Scarlett—” He turned back toward me and spoke the next words in Italian. “You have become so much more to me than my wife, my lover, my best friend. You are bigger than all those combined, yet somehow you are each and every one. I’ve never had security in my life, until you. I can’t live without it now, now that I know how it feels.”
He had never admitted that to me before, even though I knew. Brando had never had structure in his life, or even rules—not from anyone but himself. Maggie Beautiful had been a child herself when she gave birth to him, and his life revolved around taking care of her from the time that he could, which was early on.
Coming from the opposite upbringing, I never had the freedom Brando had, the chance to be wild and free. We found in each other what we both lacked, and common ground on the things we wanted for our future.
“Those words didn’t seem too sticky,” I said, smiling through tears at him.
He used his thumb to wipe one dry.“La mia luce, mia mogilie.”My light, my wife.“No, the words came easy. You live with a woman who leads and teaches, and after a while, you start to catch on.” He wiped another tear from my cheek, rubbing it against his lips. “With that settled, come.” He led me toward the door. “I don’t want to miss a chance to throwbird seedin Romeo’s hair.”
“It might spit it out,” I said. “The hairis particular.”
Brando made a face. “I wonder if his hair had to sign the marriage license, too. Juliette married two men. Romeo and his hair.”
I knew the feeling, but kept quiet, too caught up in my genial man to even consider the salty tang of tears left on my lips.
* * *
As the music began, Romeo led Juliette to the dance floor and then twirled her around in a move so smooth that the crowd gasped and then cheered.
All but a group of women who stood off to the side, sniffing. Romeo was the last of the single Fausti brothers, and though there were plenty of cousins to go around, Luca’s sons all had their hearts claimed. It was a sorrowful day for some of these women.
Brando came to stand next to me, handing me a glass of cool champagne. The reception was held at a villa right outside of Verona, complete with Juliet balconies and a lush garden that seemed to spread for hectares. Roses were in full bloom, and sprawling bougainvillea crawled over surfaces.
The twinkling lights strung up from the villa to the patio, from tree to tree, started to blink awake. The air was filled with a myriad of smells, from garlic to tomato to cheese, hops and wine and champagne, the heady perfume of an older woman swaying to the slow tempo, to the spicier scent of a young man eyeing the weeping women, the subtler scents of roses, and the hypnotizing smell of the man next to me—my favorite scent of all.
His hair was impeccable—so thick and pure black—combed back and slicked to tame the wildness of it. He had worn his hair in that same style, an undercut, for as long as I could remember, but I never tired of seeing it on him. I especially loved it in the morning, when it seemed to have a mind of its own.
I would never tell him, but when it wasn’t styled, there was a striking resemblance between his hair and Romeo’s. In fact, all four brothers had similar hair, just styled differently.
“Stop thinking it,” he said, not looking at me.
“What?” I almost choked on the champagne.
“I know what you’re thinking, Ballerina Girl. And no. Just. No.”
“You said that youcouldn’tread my mind. Or hear my thoughts.”
“I’m not. I’m reading your face. Your thoughts show.”
“All right,wise guy, what was I thinking?”
“About my hair.”
“Go on.”
“I refuse to even speak the words and repeat such lies.”
“You need glasses,” I said, smiling into the flute.
“There’s nothing wrong with these eyes, Ballerina Girl. Better to see you with.” He gave me an evil grin. “And let’s just say, I fucking love what I see.”
