He said nothing, ordering another man to get her purse. He didn’t go far. Donato had the bag next to him, but he didn’t bother picking it up. He handed the man a thick envelope. The man handed it to me.
I went to a table set against the opposite wall, a small window directly over it. It was crusted over with dirt and grime, and the light from the torches barely made it through the thick layers. I set the envelope down and pulled out its contents. My eyes narrowed on the photographs.
“Rocco,” I said, my voice sounding foreign.
“Romilda was sent to deliver those to you, brother,”he said in Italian. “Nemours sent them.”
“Those are pretty, aren’t they?” she said. “I thought so.”
The first picture was of old Emory and his grandson, Emory. They were side by side, under ice, both of them holding a blue rose to their chests. It was the same color as their lips and skin. They were dead. I had ordered them out while we were in New Orleans, but the old man refused to listen. He even refused my offer of men. But it wasn’t Ettore who took his revenge. Nemours had killed his own flesh and blood.
The other pictures made the blood freeze in my veins before my rage busted through and made it rush like a ravaging river. My heart beat like a fucking war drum.
My wife—covered in blood—right after she had arrived at the hospital.
“It has finally happened,” Romilda said, sounding truly euphoric. “You are all going to get what you deserve! The entire Fausti family deserves to rot in hell!”
I unfolded the note that Nemours included with the pictures.
Such a pity about your son, Beast. My condolences. I hope you will accept my offering as a sympathy gift. On a brighter note, I am simply euphoric that my angel did not become an angel. Her wings are too beautiful to fly from this earthly view. Yet.
Turning, I found Romilda and Rocco in battle with their eyes, though hers were glistening with unshed tears. Her finger was still pointed at him. Her voice came out low, but strong.“Tito, that old rat, told you that I was not pregnant. But what he did not tell you, lover, is that I killed your child! I was pregnant, but I did not want to bring a son into this hell he would be ordered to serve in.”Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I am not the first to abort a child of this blood. I will not be the last.”
There were secrets the Fausti family hid behind the golden gates. Livio’s story was only one of them. Livio’s father was a Fausti by blood, and he fell in love with a woman who tried to double-cross them. She tried to double cross them because they hadn’t approved of her, and she wanted them to suffer—she wanted someone to kill Marzio for not allowing their marriage.
Livio’s father hid her until Livio was born. He gave him up for adoption right after, leaving no name, only a baby outside of the home. Both of his parents were killed in a car accident the day after. It seemed Marzio didn’t appreciate the lies from either one. Livio lived in the home until Marzio decided it was time for him to join the family, but he had no idea of his history. He believed Marzio had found him one day, after someone in the family found a letter.
Marzio would have killed him, too, if Livio had known. The Faustis were big on kill first before retribution could be served. It was part of the reason why they were so feared. It was rare that they were touched.
The entire room seemed to grow dark before the shadows retreated some and the light illuminated the creature sitting in front of me.
I am not the first to abort a child of this blood. I will not be the last.
Rocco’s face drained of blood before he was lost to the darkness once more. His green eyes matched hers after she spoke those words—black. His pupils dilated with the amount of rage he locked inside.
She turned the accusing finger on me. “I know the Fausti touch. I know what it can do to a woman. It turns her skin gold—she becomes something to be claimed and owned. Her heart? It turns as black as fresh blood pouring from a fatal wound just from their attentions alone. Their love? This is what it causes.”She pulled out the rose from her dress, moving it back and forth. Something dangled from the end, something white. A card. “This is for you.”She pointed the rose at me.
I took it from her. The paper rose smelled sickly sweet, like it had been around decaying flowers too long. The card at the bottom was a toe tag. My son’s name was written on it, the date Scarlett almost died, and Nemours as the undertaker.
A sympathyfuckinggift. My condolences.
“The Faustis steal hearts,”Romilda said. “That is their signature. It is fitting. Nemours seems to have a signature of his own. The beautiful rose with poisonous thorns.”
“Lies,” a voice from the door said. She repeated it in Italian.
Before I could turn and tuck the rose away, Donato came to stand next to me, taking it out of my hand. He took it back to Romilda’s bag, tucking it inside.
“Scarlett,” I said, my voice thick. “Get inside. Now.”
Mitch shrugged. “Determined,” he said. “The men couldn’t stop her.”
No, I hadn’t given them orders to.
Scarlett pointed an accusing finger at Romilda. “Lies,” she said again. “Don’t believe her, Rocco. She’s not telling the truth. She was never pregnant. Uncle Tito was right.”
Rocco looked between Romilda and my wife.
“Do you trust me?” Scarlett asked.
