Uncle Tito had been with Brando during the meeting with thefamiglia, and Aunt Lola stood with Maggie Beautiful and me at the villa. Though she deserted me too, for an evening with Aberto.
I enjoyed talking with Aunt Lola, though. She gave me an insight into the inner workings of the Fausti family. At times she could be demure with her husband, but other times I glimpsed the truth. Silent power stood behind her demeanor, and I studied it.
She wasMamma, though she and Uncle Tito had no children.
I also knew that I could wheedle information out of Uncle Tito. He was partial to sweets and espresso, and talk of the ballet. I only hoped that our conversation would be a quick one. Deciding between chatting about the ballet or watching my overheated husband swim naked in the pool was not much of a choice.
Earlier, while chatting with Aunt Lola, I had made a folded fruit tart with mascarpone. I used my favorite abate fetel pears. I sliced two pieces, poured two cups of espresso, and brought them to the table, where the older couple was laughing.
They really were adorable.
“Ah,piccola colomba! This isbellissimo!” He took a bite, closing his eyes. Then he kissed both palms of his hand, placing one on each of my cheeks. “Your husband told me that you can spin sugar beneath your feet when you dance. I believe you spin it and then use it in your cooking!”
“He said that?” I handed Aunt Lola her plate and cup, and then brought sugar to the table for their coffee. She pinched me to show her appreciation.
Uncle Tito’s fork scraped the plate when he cut into the dessert. A pear popped out and he spread it around before taking another bite. “Sì. He is very proud of you. As he should be.”
I went to the window, looking for him. He stood not too far from the villa—he must have gone for a run—drinking water, and I blinked when he turned to me. He felt me watching. He waved, I waved, and then he pinched his cheek, shaking his head in anogesture. I laughed.
Sign language was a second language to me, since it had been one of the main ways of communicating with my brother, and I signed:You’re all the man I’ll ever need. I am so proud of you and so thankful that you’re mine.
His face went soft for a moment, his eyes tender. He nodded and then pointed toward the bridge. He signed:twenty minutes. Then:I love you.
“Uncle Tito,” I said, joining them at the table. “What happened at the meeting?”
“Ah.” He tapped at his mouth with a napkin. “Brando gave you the general idea of it. He must race for you. You must—” he lifted the fork, showcasing a piece of tart “—for him.”
“Tito.” Aunt Lola squeezed his cheeks and they went pink. “Tell us,amore.”
“I guess it cannot hurt. Ah, if you must know. It was Ettore who spoke to Olivier Nemours. He was the one who set up the meeting at that seedy resort, which I figured. But, ah, Ettore wants you to continue the dance. He wants to take it from Nemours and keep it.”
“Such a bad one, that one!” Aunt Lola said, shaking her head.
“Marzio said no?”
“Ah, not exactly. Your husband said no. Then he charged Ettore like a bull.”
Aunt Lola sucked in air, and a piece of tart went with it. I banged on her the back to clear her airway. “Right he should!” she said, her voice tight, reaching for her espresso.
“Yes. Yes. But there were a few moments when—” He cleared his throat. “Ah, Marzio sided with Brando, which infuriated Ettore. He was helpless against your husband, and Ettore is one of the finest fighters I have ever seen. Not as fine as Luca, but close. Your husband is even better—this is why they want him. He shows leadership qualities. He has already earned the respect of the men. Even Marzio. I believe this is why Marzio stepped in and dictated the terms of the wagers.”
More than a fair share of horror stories about Ettore Fausti went around and around, and if either he or Nemours owned my contract, I’d rather Nemours. I knew what we were getting with him. Ettore just seemed cruel, and he despised Brando. The second-born son of Marzio was threatened by the first-born son of his older, stronger, and more feared brother. Fear didn’t bode well with the Fausti men. This worried me. Revenge didn’t seem too low to stoop.
Marzio was getting up in age. Once he passed on, the kingdom was up for grabs. From what I gathered, the family operated like a monarchy. The first-born son would get the coveted title of king, but since Luca had killed the sheriff’s wife and unborn child, bringing shame upon the family, Ettore was up next in line.
Marzio hadn’t given him his blessing—there was some sort of “official” party once this was established. A switching of power, though to the world it looked like some grand gala, all proceeds donated to different charities.
Or, there was another way to succeed: another branch in the family tree could break off and challenge, and then fight, the current king or his successor for the role of ruler.
Ettore was suspicious of his nephew—if Brando challenged him, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Brando would win. He had too much of his father running through his veins. Rocco could also decide to challenge Ettore, but he was less wary of him.
Rocco had had chances to challenge him but never did. It seemed Rocco only wanted to rule if his father told him to. For some reason Luca held back on that front, but he was euphoric ever since Brando had connected with his blood. It’s what he had wanted all along.
This family seemed dormant, like a sleeping giant, until I came along.
“Do not worry,piccola colomba.” Uncle Tito patted my hand. “Your husband seems to know what he is doing. Though he was not raised in this lifestyle, he seems to have a knack for the inner workings of it. I am bold enough to say that he seems made for it, destined almost.But.” Uncle Tito went silent for a few moments, staring at the last piece of his tart.
“But?” I said, reminding him of his thought.
