“If I leave, what then?”
“I ah, will find myself—staying here. Indefinitely. I do wish to be buried in Italy, Scarlett. Next to my mamma.”
Placing a hand to each side of my head, I massaged the stress down, or attempted to. It wasn’t working.
As if our problems weren’t severe enough! Ettore and Nemours to start. In the midst of it all, he was dishonored by something that happened before him.
He had told me that he was at his breaking point. I realized then that this was an outlet for him. He had been itching for an opportunity like this one, to release his anger on the world, to rage against emotions that snuck up on him.
I was sick and he wasn’t there. Ettore’s scheming. The sound of taunting laughter echoing in the shadows, coming straight from Nemours. Jane Jones and her false accusations. The opinion of one Sheriff Stone. Not to mention the fact that his brother and his main man, his cousin, tried to tell him what was in the best interest ofhiswife.
Nick Lomas gave him an excuse—honor! Such a pigheaded man!Acting like some jealous teenage—man!
I looked at Eva, whose face had paled. Layla stood next to her, staring down the dark road like she could will her husband back with a silent call from the wild.
Eva caught my look.
“Rock, you said?” I repeated her description of my husband.
She nodded slowly. “I did. But I didn’t exclude his head, did I?”
Chapter Six
Scarlett
Ambulances and police sirens wailed in the night, foreboding and unnerving. Closing my eyes, I tried to measure the distance, only coming up with—not too far.
“Five blocks or so?” Eva questioned.
All I could do was nod. Five or two or one…close enough, at any rate.
Hours—hours—had gone by! I was worried to the point of madness, tired to the point of delirium, and feverish. One seemed to feed into the other, fattening their causes with my disquiet. I rose from the kitchen table, emptying the rest of my chicory coffee in the sink. Rinsing the cup, then washing it, I found the shhhh and swirl of water eased my mind, but not for long.
The house was quiet, eerily so. No conversations. No laughter. No music. We were all on pins and needles, waiting for the verdict.
I found myself outside, in the courtyard, jacket pulled tight against me in defiance of the weather. Eva and Layla, along with the other women, followed, the cool air freeing my tight throat to take in easier breaths. My teeth chattered and my bones twitched inside my body, but the air was all mine.
Where are you, Brando Fausti? Damn you!
Whiskey came to me on the breeze in answer. I tensed even further, holding my breath. I counted to forty, and then let the air out. The sounds of drunken, lewd Irish ballads, closer, closer…one, two, three…I counted to sixty this time.
A gust of breath left my mouth as the gate swung open. The group filed in. The song still came steady, raspy laughter and whoops filling in some quieter parts.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I narrowed my eyes. Eva, Layla, and the rest of the women stood alongside me, forming a fence. We were outnumbered, but for some reason, I got the feeling that pure feminine rage outranked outnumbered.
“Ire,” Michael said, his voice going deep, low, almost scratchy.
Two beats passed and the group of men laughed.
There was an even calmness about me that I didn’t particularly trust. My fists were balled at my sides, the inside of my lip raw from worrying the tender skin, and internally all was aglow, but…my breath was even, my eyes steady on his.
Blood ran down from his brow. The scar he had gotten in Paris when Nemours had sent his men to attack him and Young Emory was split again. Blood stained his clothes. He held his hands behind his back.
Each man, I quickly noticed, had similar gashes. I couldn’t help but feel as though they reveled in the lunacy. As well as no less than four bottles of poison, apiece, at least, judging by the thick fumes. Not even the open air could snuff it out.
I submerged the impulse to ask if anyone had a lighter, and asked instead, “What did you do?” My voice came out as even as my breath.
Brando rarely got drunk. He could handle his drink as well as he could handle a woman. This time the drink had the upper hand. Combined with the high of the fight.
