He was being ushered into the room and told where to take a seat. Before he did, his eyes met mine. All of the air felt as though it was sucked from the room by his lungs alone. His presence seemed to fill the entire space, consuming every ounce of brick and mortar, along with the people inside of it, overflowing to the freedom outside.
Those damn eyes.
He called me forward without a word, without a movement. Whatever strength he had, he contained it there—on purpose. Men like Luca Fausti, like my husband, only did things with purpose in mind.
Luca was just as imposing as his sons. Over six feet tall, he was broad-shouldered, with a thin waist. His arms seemed strong enough to drain the life from another man with a mere squeeze. His legs gave him a certain swagger, the lethal kind. The man walked in confidence, nothing less than a thick sense of self-importance that could never be rattled.
People took a step to the side when he moved, pushed out of his space by his force field alone.
Each of his sons lived in his dignified features, none stronger than my husband, which gave me an odd thrill and a stroke of fear. His raven hair was slicked back, making his angular bones,strong bones, seem so striking. The sides of his hair, just above the ears, were streaked with pure silver. It did nothing to deter from the fact that he was one of the most gorgeous men that I’d ever seen.
If anything, the addition of pure gray added a layer of mystery—a testament to a life full of trials, of things not often seen—to his heartbreaking face. The Fausti tattoo wrapped around his neck, a rosary with a lion’s face in its center, a sacred heart in its mane, peeking out of his standard-issue jumpsuit.
He smiled at me.
A noise came unbidden from my mouth. It was almost a whimper. He had an easy smile, much easier than my husband’s. Somehow the smoothness of it made him more deadly. Hewasmore deadly, I realized with a jolt, in all the ways that counted.
How in the hell did Maggie Beautiful ever survive him?
As strange as it sounded, and felt even stranger to me, an ache between my legs reminded me of what I had left behind. The same yearning mirrored the ache this man had left behind. All those years that Maggie Beautiful had pined for him seemed to encapsulate me in that moment—he was as romantic as he was lethal.
She didn’t survive him. She still lives with his ghost. There was no place for her to run, to find contentment again, not unless he was near—causing war and harmony.
He sat back in his chair, eyes only for me, and lit up a cigar. The sweet scent of it drifted toward me. I wasn’t even sure if cigars were allowed. For him, it was.
“Of course,” I muttered, fixing my dress. Instead of running, I took my time to get to him, ignoring the protest of my feet.
When I came close to his table, he stood, holding out his hand for me. My husband’s hands mirrored this man’s. All of the same lines, just older, more calloused, but with that same warmth that soothed. A woman would feel instantly at ease.
A false sense of security in the face of a tale as old as time—this man could be everything, lover, best friend, protector, a fantasy come to life. He was the gorgeous hero with a villain’s cunning and ruthless nature.
This man caused a war to rage within me. Every instinct inside of me screamed at me to run, but not to turn my back.
On the other hand, monsters never scared me. I was drawn to them.
“Curious” was probably the best description. Deep down I sensed what monsters were: men with beating hearts, even if dark and warped with webs.
Bringing my hand to his lips, he turned it over, placing a gentle kiss on my wrist, on the pulse point. “ScarlettRosa.”
“Lucious,” I nodded.
His eyes flared at the given name, but he said nothing, nodding to the seat behind me. Ladies first. He waited for me to sit before he took his seat across from me.
“You aregrazioso.Worthy of a stone figure in my beloved Italy. You have a finesse that defies your true strength. My son chose well. I have been told these things, of course. However, I prefer to see them with these eyes.” He blinked at me. “Grazie. For seeing me here today.”
He said this as though we had always had a long-standing appointment, offered up by his giving nature, not by my own choice. Patience, he oozed patience.
“Ammaliato,” I said, meaning it.Charmed.There was no way to lie to this man—he would know.
He nodded, inhaling a lung full of smoke before releasing it, swirls of white purling toward the ceiling. He said something in Sicilian. I shook my head, wordlessly telling him that I didn’t have the language.
“No Sicilian?” He removed a piece of tobacco from his tongue with his fingers.
“No.”
He blew out a cloud of the sweet-smelling smoke and eyed me for…perhaps sixty seconds that could have been sixty years. The strength behind his eyes was intense. I lost track of time. I almost felt aged.
“Una vergogna,” he said with passion, almost ticking his tongue.Such a shame.“Such a beautiful language. Especially flowing from a mouth as gorgeous as yours.”
