Chapter Twenty
Brando
Scarlett stood in our kitchen, looking over a few things she had laid out on the counter. Her head came up for a second, eyeing the antique pots hanging from the ceiling on a rack. Then back to the counter to flip through a cookbook.
She had been wearing a dress, but now she only wore a fitted black slip. The top was tight, with lace trim melting into shiny silk. When she would bend over, the cross pendant would dangle, while the necklace with the key I had given her shimmered against her breastbone, and her breasts would rise like two fleshy bubbles about to pop over the top. Her hair was still done, big bouncy curls moving wildly about her head, and so was her face. Her bright red lipstick had no shine, but the color still reminded me of melted rubies. Her feet were bare, high heels discarded with the dress.
All of the fancy-scented products drifted to me from where I stood in the shadows, right outside of the golden sunlight that coated the kitchen and the woman in it. It was that certain time of day when light clings. Her figure softened to butter, hazy at best, like an angel bathing in dusk.
Her career called after the race. She had a photo shoot in Milan for someexclusive magazine. On occasion I would accompany her, but Maggie Beautiful and Violet were eager to go. Rosaria too. Scarlett refused to go at first, worried about the party set for tomorrow, but I talked her into it. She had done enough to impress the Faustifamigliafor years to come.
I went to Milan with her, though, but instead I met Rocco, Dario, and Romeo while she did her famous ballerina thing. I knew the basic premise of the family business, the fierceness of it like second skin, but I needed a deeper understanding of the logistics. My three brothers took me with them to collectpizzosfrom the shopkeepers.
Usually this was far below their statuses—they had others who collected—but I wanted to meet the operation face to face. In comparison to the body, this particular deed would be compared to the feet. Usually overlooked for their importance in comparison to the more important organs, but in the gist of things, feet move the body. Though collectingpizzoshad become a miniscule operation in light of what the Faustifamigliahad become, the task stayed as a reminder.This is how it all began; we are never too good for the basics. We must never forget the seed that turned our roots into golden fruit.
My wife turned her music on then, some feminine song about love—slow, romantic, maybe even a bit sexual, the drum beating like a deep pulse in the background. She hummed at first and then sang along to a few verses.
Guilt. She was the only one who had ever elicited it from me.
I knew what had to be done, what I was capable of, and for her livelihood and mine, I’d be damned if I didn’t deliver. But there were a few times during collecting when I couldn’t help seeing her, standing before me, watching, her eyes on me even when she wasn’t around—one on my heart,guiding me to do the right thing, and one on my back,keeping me safe.
I hadn’t told her, not yet, what I had been doing with Rocco, Dario, and Romeo. I would tell her, though, come nightfall. I’d sit on the rocker, out on the terrace, bringing her to me, close against my chest, her body sheltered in my arms. She’d stare above, and I’d tell her all of my secrets, all that I needed council on, and maybe forgiveness for.
She’d gaze above so hard that I would sometimes wonder if she had drifted away from me, but somewhere deep down, I knew she listened.
She always would.
Once I was done, she’d speak to me, offer whatever she had to give—sometimes it was words that made me want to crawl out of my skin, my stomach ill from the discomfort of the goodness of her opinion. Then she’d rise, look me straight in the eye, giving me the depths of her truth and love, before she kissed my forehead, each eye, my nose, each cheek, and then my lips.Absolution.
I blinked, pulled from the memory.
One foot came up, rubbing along the back of her other leg. Her ankles were slender and perfect, her legs sleek and built for the dance. A soft hand came to her neck, her ring glinting, moving deep into her hair. I couldn’t see her face, but I didn’t need to. She was concentrating on the task at hand.
Bread was what she was making, her fingers about to be knuckle-deep in dough. She was so comfortable knowing that I was in the house with her that she had settled into the humming that connected the two of us. My presence hadn’t registered.
Whiskey glowed like molten amber on the counter. The glint of crystal caught her attention, holding it. A lazy smile came to her face, and then she grinned from ear to ear.
Don't let me forget to tell you that I love you...
I was so hard that it was painful, my dick straining against the confinement of my pants. Coming up behind her, I wrapped an arm around her waist. Her body stiffened for the briefest of moments before she melted into me. She went down, moving to the cadence of the song, and then came back up slowly, rubbing her behind against my front.
“Signore Fausti,” she said, a bit playful. “What’s on your mind?” Her arms rose, coming to rest behind my head.
“You,” I whispered. “Sempre tu.”
My nose and lips drifted along the tender skin of her neck, and then I applied pressure, kissing her harder. My free hand slid up her arm, calming the goosebumps that puckered her skin. The light danced across her breasts like the sun against cream on the counter. Her skin was so fine that it was almost translucent, a hint of gold making her glow.
My hand around her waist moved up, underneath the cup of the slip, making her breast bounce, become even more ample. So fucking close to overflow. They were shaped like two perfect teardrops. I whispered the word against her pulse in Italian,lacrime, and she trembled against me.
“What am I going to do without you?” she said, just a breath. “When it’s time for you to go back to work?”
“Maybe I won’t have to.”
She turned on me, fast.
Two weeks offshore curbed my appetite for trouble. I was on my own metal island, most of the time below the surface, and surrounded by men who worked hard for their pay. But the idea of leaving her haunted me.
Something else was there too, but if I thought it, she’d catch it. It started with a V and ended with an E. (Vengeance.) We had no idea what Marzio was going to decide either.
