Marzio Fausti was Luca’s father and still the leader of the powerfulfamiglia.
“Did you say he is a Fausti?”
“A Fausti?”
“How lovely!”
“Oui!He is the spitting image of Luca. Is he an uncle? What a splendid family! Do you drive as well?”
“Such an impressive Ferrari collection they have, indeed.”
“Marzio’s wife, Grazia, was related to the Machiavelli family of Florence and agorgeousactress of her time. Splendid bloodline. TheyareItaly.”
“What do you do?”
In a mad rush, a crowd surrounded me, everyone asking questions without really waiting for an answer. Comments went back and forth like a Ping-Pong ball. I was intent on letting them have at it; it meant that no one bothered to ask the most important question. Who was Lucious Leone Fausti to me?
“Brando Fausti?” an Italian woman said, sliding her hand along my forearm. “I am Rosaria Caffi. I know your family well, but I do not know you.” Black hair, tan skin, green eyes, red lips, tall, with a strong Italian accent. She seemed to be the only person in the crowd who anticipated my reply.
I took a step to the side, out of her reach. “You wouldn’t.”
Rosaria’s gaze became intense on my face. If a mind could click, hers was, connecting all of the pieces with lightning speed. The fact that I was in Paris, surrounded by all of these people, would make it back to Luca before the night was over.
He might have not forced me to join him in the family business—couldn’t, due to restrictions put on him by his own father—but that didn’t mean he didn’t want it. Give him an out and he’d take it, and he’d force me into what he considered my duty faster than he could saysì. Still, the head of the family’s word was law; unless Luca wanted to challenge his own father, Marzio’s word was set in stone.
“No, perhaps not,” Rosaria said slowly. “Lucious è stato impegnato.”
A grin came to my face and I answered in the same language.Yeah, Lucious was busy once upon a time.
Without having to confirm it, she knew that Luca was my father. Some said the resemblance was shocking. And not just in looks.
Rosaria nodded once, grinning mischievously.
Scarlett’s eyes were on us, a steady burn from across the room. Not long after, she came to stand next to me. In the most graceful way, she slipped in, listening intently to the conversation.
A man popped up with a camera. He took a picture of Rosaria Caffi and me. I wasn’t even looking at him at the time.
“Monsieur Fausti,merci beaucoup. I will be sure to mention that you are here with Rosaria Caffi.”
“I’m here with Scarlett,” I corrected him.
He looked between Scarlett and me.
“The ballerina? I thought she was here with Monsieur Nemours?”
He wasn’t trying to drum up tension. He was trying to figure out the logistics so he could get the details right. Though I questioned how “right” he was trying to get the facts judging by the way he lumped Rosaria Caffi and me together without really knowing the truth.
Scarlett and I stared at each other.
“I am not here with Monsieur Nemours, as I had mentioned earlier,” she said to him while she gazed at me.
The crowd went silent until Nemours walked over and clapped a hand on Nigel’s shoulder. “I hear there is an elite here.” He gave a raucous laugh. “Fausti.”
“No one more elite than you, Nemours,” Nigel said, giving him a jab in the ribs.
Money, power, clout, all signs that pointed to him being what I had predicted—a bottom dweller that fed on all of the above. There was no doubt that he was influential. He had the word “deserve” written all over him.
He kissed me!she had blurted. The man had no idea how close to madness he stood.
