“So you said. But still…”
“Let me see. How do I explain to someone who is consumed by love? We have holes, and neither of us can fill all of them. We love each other, but not completely. It has always been this way.”
“Why marry?”
“Our marriage was arranged,bella. We both wanted it enough to make it work. You seem to have a problem with desires of the flesh. It makes you uncomfortable. Especially when it comes to your husband. He is a male animal. It is instinctual for him to want. Men with Fausti blood,they need a lot of attention.”
“Not from other women. He’s mine,” I said, more than a stroke of fire in my tone. “Perhaps if you would try…?”
She put the magazine on the table and then gave me a long, accessing look. “Perhaps. But not today.” She closed her eyes. “I am going to take a siesta now.” She sunk deeper into her chair, her face dissolving into peace not long after.
I tried to follow behind her, but I couldn’t. Not with Brando inside the lion’s den. Finally, when I thought that I’d combust from the pressure, I asked Donato how long these sorts of situations usually took. The cord connecting me to Brando seemed stretched, not in danger, per say, but something felt entirely off.
He shrugged. “Depends.”
“Is this normal though? That it would take this long?”
He smiled at me, trying to be nice, I was sure. “Depends on the business.”
Twenty minutes later, Rocco found me. “Come with me,” he snapped.
I threw on my jean shorts and then hustled to keep up with his long stride. “Rocco? What happened? Where’s Brando?”
“He is being held.”
“Held?”
He took me to a white stone building used for washing off sand. The front was covered by long, gauzy strips of white material meant for privacy. Eleven or more men huddled around, and it was clear to see that they were struggling with something, or more precise, someone.
“Let him go!” I tried to bully my way through, but Rocco took me by the arm. I shrugged him off. “Lascialo andare!”
Rocco repeated my words, and the men slowly backed away. I came up the line, setting my hands against my husband’s chest. I could feel his heart pounding.
“Brando? What happened?”
I looked deeper into his eyes. If the Italians had a name for berserker, it would have been Brando Fausti.
“What did they give him? Rocco? Why are his eyes dilated?” I started to unbutton his shirt, because he was saturated with sweat.
Rocco ordered one of the men to fetch water, and the others to leave, before answering. “Nothing. They gave him nothing. He cracked. Almost got us all killed!”
The man came back, handing me a plastic bottle and a cloth saturated with cool water. I folded it, putting it against his neck. I poured more of the water over his heated skin.
“Brando,” I said, as softly as I could. “What happened?” He didn’t answer, so I looked at Rocco. “What happened? Do they want…him?”
“Perhaps tomorrow.” Rocco paced the floor, rubbing his bottom lip. He seemed to need a cool cloth and water too—his cheeks were crimson under the golden olive complexion. Sweat patches formed under his arms and on his back.
“I don’t understand, Rocco.”
“It is not him they want,bella.”
I kept the cloth pressed against Brando’s neck. When I understood, I fought to keep my hands from trembling. He’d feel it. “Oh. They want me to—dance.”
“Sì.”
“I can do that.” I smiled at Brando, the best one I could manage, though my insides churned. “I will do that.”
Brando’s hand came over mine. He shook his head.
