Scarlett took a step closer to me; no matter how hard she fought, she still felt me in her veins.
“Ah, I suppose.” Nemours sighed and gave me his undivided attention. “Word travels quickly. I did not realize I was in the presence of one related to such greats. Tell us, Fausti, which one of the greats should we thank for your presence here tonight?”
“Luca Fausti,” Scarlett answered, pride in her voice. “You might know him as Lucious.”
It almost made me blanch. For such a smart woman, she had no idea who I came from or what that family was capable of. If it came out tonight, so be it. But I’d keep her from them and them from her at all costs.
Scarlett turned her nose up to enhance the point, her features set in defiance, her tone set to destroy anyone who treaded too heavily, but in a diplomatic way. Which could be even more demeaning. It was the equivalent of throwing a bucket of pink paint on a million-dollar black motorcycle.
“One of the greats, to be sure! Of course, I recognized the resemblance right from the go. But I did not want to be presumptuous.” Nigel turned to Nemours, nodding his head enthusiastically. “Fine racer. Just splendid.” He turned back to me. “How is the old boy?”
I grabbed a whiskey straight from a passing server, taking a deep drink. “Serving hard time in Louisiana. Two counts of vehicular manslaughter.”
“That is—” The equally enthusiastic reply Nigel had been about to deliver died in his throat. He grabbed for another drink, and everyone looked everywhere but at me.
All but Rosaria Caffi, who smiled with a straight set of gleaming white teeth. If she was on intimate terms with thefamiglia, as she had claimed, she already had the scandalous information.
I continued, enjoying the tension. “Blood level of a lethal percent. Didn’t even know his name, or hers—the woman he killed, and the child she carried. I have his inmate number, if you’d like to get in touch. He’ll be there a while. He killed another inmate, adding a few more years to his sentence.”
Scarlett bumped me, hard, as she left the circle. I followed behind, weaving in and out of the crowd, dodging servers, sidestepping slower guests. She moved with remarkable grace and ease, and for someone of her size, speed.
I caught up in a few easy strides, but instead of stopping her, I allowed her to make it to the ending destination. She stepped outside, onto a stone balcony, facing miles and miles of lush green grass and a garden that would be in full bloom come spring. Beyond that, the outlines of a forest that looked untamed faded into the distance.
Cool air rushed into my mouth, burning against the lingering whiskey. My nose still held the thick scents from inside.
Standing against an ornate railing, she gazed up at the stars. The sky was overrun with them. She had been running a fingertip back and forth against the cool stone, but her fingers stilled when she heard me. Her foot glided from left to right, drawing a line.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, her voice as fragile as her laugh had been earlier. “I’m jealous of that woman, the opera singer. Rosaria Caffi. I’m not. I know better. She’s not the one you want.”
“True.”
“It does bother me, though, when they stare too long, or touch you. It shouldn’t. You’re not mine. But it does all the same.”
“It bothers me too,” I admitted.
“When they touch you?” I could tell that made her grin.
“No,” I said, watching as the wind made her hair flutter around her face. “When men touch what’s mine. Or think they have a right to it. They don’t.”
She sighed, a tired sound. “Your voice still makes goosebumps rise on my arms. God.” She covered her face, laughing, but not with humor. “You’re beautiful. You’re even more gorgeous today than the first time I set eyes on you that night out in the snow—not that I could see you all that well, but I felt you. I’ve always felt you. You had appeared out of nowhere, an angel in all black, surrounded by the purest thing to come from heaven besides rain.”
“Angelo sbagliata.”
“Mine. Or so I thought. Misguided or not.” She waved a hand in front of her face, a dismissive gesture. “You’ve always been mine, Brando Fausti. Though I try my damnedest to let you go! My place is beside you. I’ve always been there, which is purgatory. You’ll dance with Maja Resnik while the entire party watches, but you won’t even walk next to me! You, of all people, are inaccessible. What am I doing?”
She turned to go, her dress fanning out with the swift motion, eyes cast down, but I caught her arm. My hand alone could snap her bones in two.
“Look at me.” I searched her eyes, wide and deep, coming to that unknown place we met to connect; she could lead me there without direction. “Hear me when I say this. You’re the only one I’ll ever want. I belong to you. Only you.”
Her smile was broken, an echo of the frailness in her laugh and tone. “How can that be? If you’re mine…shouldn’t you want to be next to me too? Oh—I understand. Your heart is mine, but not your body. Not you entirely. Not anymore.”
“You know me better.”
“Do I?” she said, her face holding the question in its expression. “The feeling I get doesn’t lie when it comes to you. To us.”
“No.” My grip tightened on her arm. She had the urge to run; the energy seemed to vibrate in her blood. “You feel me, Scarlett. I know you do. But the other feeling comes from a place of fear. You gave life to it.”
If the wordsI’m not your fathercame out of my mouth, she’d either attack me or shut down. The latter wasn’t worth the risk. I had come to discover years ago that her father’s affairs scarred her deep.
