He cleared his throat. “He knows I can fight him and win. I already have.”
“No.” I shook my head, putting the lipstick back. “If there’s a chance that none of this will matter tomorrow, why would he be so threatened?”
“I’m Luca Fausti’s oldest son. If I wanted to take over—”
“You would be the next Marzio Fausti.”
He nodded, added nothing more.
“Tell me, my husband,” I said, “sei un uomo d'onore?Sei un soldato e un principe?”Are you a man of honor? Are you a soldier as well as a prince?“Have you been baptized in their way of life?”
His eyes narrowed, and his nostrils flared. He hated that I knew so much, but he knew I was too curious not to dig, and too many people were too tempted to tell me. Wherever he went, no matter how deep, I stood beside him. Therefore, I had just as much right as he did to know all there was to know about this powerfulfamigliaI had married into.
He rubbed his bottom lip, considering, and then finally, he shook his head, no.
The real question was:who will you become, my love?But I wouldn’t receive an answer from him. Not then.
When I went to grab for the cream that matched the perfume he loved so much, he stopped me.
“Un minuto,mia moglie.”
He laid the dress across the bed, and a few moments later, he returned with a wrapped box in each hand. He handed me the one in his right first.
“Perfume?” I said, sniffing at the bottle. Roses, jasmine, pear, and other green notes, but underneath, something more seductive, iris root, musk, and sandalwood. I inhaled again, the aroma drifting underneath my noise like a symphonic note.
I spritzed some along my pulse points—wrists, behind my ears, throat, inside my elbow, behind my knee. Offering him my neck, I closed my eyes as his nose drifted along my skin.
“The smell of it reminded me of our wedding night,” he said, squeezing the rings he placed on my fingers, the edges sharp against flesh.
The rush of blood to my cheeks bloomed like two hot red roses—I was not embarrassed; I was overwhelmingly touched. I opened my eyes, meeting his. “Thank you, my angel.”
Placing the second box on the bed, he held out my dress and helped me step into it, running his hands along the back, making sure the lines were straight. His hands settled on my hips.
“You have a beautiful back,” he said, placing a kiss in the middle of it.
I shivered from the warmth of his lips and then slipped on my heels, turning to face him.
“Am I ready for this?” I whispered.
He handed me the second box.
“What’s this about?” I smiled. “Did you do me wrong?” I teased.
He didn’t react to the tease. “Open it.”
“Brando…”
Yesterday in Milan, after a photo shoot, I had stopped at an exclusive Italian jeweler’s shop—the same designer who created the band on my right hand—to admire a white-gold bracelet encrusted with diamonds, inspired by a Homer painting.
It wasn’t the diamonds or the metal that attracted me, though. It was the handcrafted tulle technique, the way the wave and seashell patterns seemed to truly sway and rock, the white foam atop the ocean drifting over it all. It had reminded me of us—tulle and sea. It was the perfect match to the band on my right hand.
Brando refused to touch the money I made, considering it mine only, and this piece of jewelry was expensive. But I knew where he had gotten the money. After I assured him that I didn’t want Luca’s racecar, he had Rocco find a buyer for it. Rocco bought it back, not wanting it to leave the family. When I had asked him why he wanted to sell it, he had shrugged and said, “Money in the bank.”
He slipped the bracelet on my wrist, admiring the way it looked. In the bright light, it shone like an irreplaceable treasure from below the surface of some mysterious sea.
“You didn’t have to—”
“I do nothing,” he said, “unless I want to. I’d give you the world if I could.”
