He guided me, Brando next to us. His two brothers and Rosaria followed. Down the hill some, heels almost silent against brown dirt, he stopped, pointing to a spot in the shade.
“What is that?” I narrowed my eyes, putting up a hand. The glare was relentless.
“A car.” He laughed a bit more.
After Brando had sold the racecar back to Rocco, Rocco felt that I still deserved a car, something “Fausti approved.” He offered me my pick from the family’s collection, but the problem was that they were all Ferraris and felt too powerful for me. I had told Rocco I needed time to think about it.
I caught the sly look between Brando and Rocco. Brando knew me too well. I’d never think about it, so he had decided for me.
Running a hand along the slick paint job—ice white, chrome trim, all matte black rims and a convertible top—I asked, “What kind of car is this?”
“A Maserati GranCabrio with a few upgrades.”
The Fausti Four laughed, Rosaria along with them.
“Let me guess,” I said sarcastically. “It’s bulletproof?”
Laughter faded. Each person looked at the other with suspicion.
“It’s bulletproof!” I yelled.
“Calm down,bella,” Rosaria said, taking me by the shoulders, guiding me back up the hill. “Mine is too.”
Well, if that doesn’t make me feel warm inside.I clutched the cross around my neck.
Rocco left us, his wife at his side, Dario and Romeo in tow, while Brando and I took our places again, greeting more guests.
“Nipote,” Marzio said, emerging from the shadows.Grandson.
I stilled. Brando’s hand on my back suddenly felt like a brand, it was so hot. The pressure increased.
At the old man’s arrival, the three people greeting us paused and then nodded, moving on to the tables surrounded by guests.
He was dressed in a similar fashion to his grandson, but no guns seemed to be hidden under his jacket. His guards were seven-deep in the shadows, waiting, along with his four sons.
Brando took his hands, kissing each one. “Nonno,” he said respectfully.
Marzio kissed each of Brando’s cheeks. “Ah,” he said, turning to me, placing a chaste kiss on my knuckles, a la Rocco. “Your beautiful wife.Scarlett.Dolce gatinno.”
The old man didn’t catch it—or if he did, he didn’t make a thing of it—but I certainly did: Brando bristled at the pet name.
“Nonno,” I said, placing a kiss on each cheek—he smelled expensive, like cigars and leather and fine cologne. “E 'un piacere avervi a casa nostra. La nostra casa è la tua.”It is a pleasure to have you at our home. Our home is yours.
“Ah,bellissimo!” he said, pinching my cheeks lightly. “It pleases me that you call me grandfather. And that you welcome me to your beautiful home.” He looked to Brando. “Your wife is graceful.Enchanting.Beyond her dance.”
“Sì.” Brando glanced at me. “Lei è grazia.”She is grace.
Marzio said something about his wife, about her name being Grazia, and how he felt the virtue connected us.
Heat rose to my cheeks, and I turned my eyes away, trying to hide it. The old man caught it, a pleasant smile coming to his lips. When he gave a compliment, it felt as though he was placing the world at your feet. This particular charm, or perhaps, gift, seemed to run through the blood.
“I wish to ask permission. I have a, ah,regalofor my new granddaughter.” He lifted a finger, beckoning, and a man came toward us, holding a box that seemed to tremble. “Tell me you do not mind,Nipote.”
Brando still had his hand on my lower back, and with the request, he gently guided me forward, nodding his head. “It would be an honor,Nonno.”
With trembling fingers, I took the box, noting that holes were poked on the top. Lifting the lid, I laughed in pleasure. I took the black kitten out—she had green eyes, almost the same color as mine—and handed Brando the box, snuggling her to my chest.
“You like her.” Marzio cocked his head to the side.
