“You meddled in their marriage.”
“Not exactly. I told her that I found it disturbing that she didn’t care if another woman slept with her husband and vice versa.”
“You spread morals around like germs,” he said.
“You have a problem with morals, Fausti?”
His smile taunted. He was baiting me. “Only when you try to apply them in our bedroom, between us.” He picked me up, arms under my behind, squeezing me to him.
He knew me better. I never did that.
“Me?” I feigned innocence. “I’m a lady in the streets, a—”
His lips came against mine, suffocating my entire reply.
“Save the dirty talk for later. I have to race for my wife’s honor now.”
“You’ll win.”
“Yeah. You picked my car.”
* * *
It was hard not to stare. Brando’s uncles and his grandfather were seated a few rows over from me, and they made quite the impression. It almost seemed sinful to have so much beauty and virility in one contained area. It felt somewhat like gluttony.
Though they were older, they were no less gorgeous and daunting for it. Even at Marzio’s age, he was still stunning, and the power he held emanated from him like fine cologne.
Donato led me to my seat, and the closer I came to their seats, the harder it was for me to move or to breathe. Each man held a heady amount of power, and I could feel it bone deep.
Whether my husband was brought up around them or not, there was no doubt that he belonged to this family. It seemed odd to me in that moment that he had never been around them before. His instincts were as fierce as theirs.
A lion den, Brando had called it before,with all of the same rules applying.
No doubt about it. And my husband was the new lion in town, defending his territory while at the same time needing to be accepted into the established group—or else we might be run out of town, or worse.
Marzio held my stare while his sons chatted amongst themselves. All but Ettore, who seemed more interested in the connection between his father and me. Uncle Tito noticed and said something to Marzio, winking at me.
I smiled. Marzio grinned at me and turned to face the scene in front of us, listening to Uncle Tito.
“Scarlett,” Donato said, gesturing with his arm to my seat.
These people took racing seriously. Built into their backyard was a full racing track. Men hovered around the two racecars, my husband nodding at whatever one of them was saying to him. Mitch and Mick stood next to the man, nodding as well.
It was no secret in our small town that Brando’s nickname was “Seven.” My brother, Elliott, had given him the name when Brando was seven years old, the year Luca was arrested for killing the sheriff’s wife and unborn child, and his hold on his son was loosened.
I hoped that luck and skill stuck with him here. This entire situation was the equivalent of a dual with swords to this group.
Donato cleared his throat. “Scarlett.” He touched my back and then gestured to my seat again.
“Oh,” I breathed out. “Thank you.”
I took my seat, glancing at Marzio once more. Our eyes connected—he had been staring at me—and I smiled at him once again. It took a moment, but finally, he returned it and nodded. Then his attention shifted once more, his eyes finding Brando.
It was hard to tell what was on the old man’s mind, but he seemed to be feeling us out. The connection. There was no doubt that he felt it between us, stretching. But I didn’t think the connection was what he was after. It was the dynamics behind it.
“Good luck figuring that one out,” I said under my breath.
“Pardon?” Donato said, looking down at me.
