“Perhaps,” I said. He still might, if he became curious enough. He would omit details to save me from the rest of his people, but that might only be because he wanted me for himself. I would be a double win for him—his loverandhis spy.
One look at Brando and I knew. He had known all along, but he couldn’t confirm it because he couldn’t understand the language. Spoken words were never much of a matter to a man like Brando. He felt too. His instincts were raw, unblemished by the ways of the new world.
The two men in the backseat started to speak at once. Voices started to rise, ping-ponging between English and Italian. When my hysterical laugh reached them, they became quiet, watching me with almost identical expressions. Eyebrows lowered, eyes narrowed, lips pinched, caught between residual anger and newly found dismay at my behavior.
I laughed even harder, doubling over.
Brando held up a hand. “Give her a minute.” He reached over and grabbed my hand, but I pulled it from his grasp.
“A trip!” I laughed even harder, flinging my hands around wildly. “I’m such a fucking trip!” My laughter turned into pure anger, led by a fear so acute it almost flung my heart out of my chest. “I am going to get you all killed!”
I turned to look at the two men in the backseat, tears streaming down my face.
“I can’t—I can’t do that!” Panicked. I became panicked. I turned to Brando, reaching for his hand, holding it to my heart so he could feel the frantic pace of it. “That’s why you want to die in my arms. You know! I’m going to get you killed. No!No! I refuse. All this time—” I couldn’t even finish. I had to take a second to wrap my mind around all of this. “I imagined you meant when you were old, and I was old, and right after you would…I would. There would be no separation. But. No! I refuse. Do you hear me? I would rather die than be without you! I will die!”
Brando’s face paled, turning his usual bronze glow to ash. Sweat started to drip from his forehead. It seemed like each of his muscles quivered.
“Do we need Tito?” Donato whispered in Italian to Brando.
“No!” I wailed. “I don’t need anyone but my husband!”
Brando held up his hand. “Scarlett,” he said, calm, soothing, like he spoke to a fearful animal. “When we married, I made my choice. No, I made my choice that night out in the snow. So did you. Tell me if you’ve changed your mind.”
He heard it. A voice inside me shouting at me to leave him so I could keep him safe. He also felt it, the whisper of my heart, even through the fear. I couldn’t live without him. He was too much a part of me, as important as a heart, or even my soul.
“No,” came my automatic response. Like breathing. “I haven’t. But I don’t—” I shook my head. “No,” I finished lamely. Instinct had taken over and forced me to tell the truth.
But what if it meant saving his life? Would I be able to leave?
“Stop thinking it,” he said, a growl clipping the end of the command. “You will not leave me. I dare you to try. You go where I go. I go where you go. Do you understand me?”
Did I? I turned my face away and stared out the window, not able to penetrate the dense darkness. I only listened to the voices inside of my head for the remainder of the ride home.
* * *
Butter and biscuits came to mind when we pulled up the drive.
The villa was all lit up, the golden glow behind the windows like melted butter. Fog hung low, but some drifted, peeking in like curious ghosts, and the smell of baking biscuits hung in the cold air, softening the bite.
The entire house was up. My father was probably waiting. Therefore, Eunice was attempting to dispel the disquiet by baking something he enjoyed. This was a scene that I remembered from childhood.
Lothario and his men were right behind the Maserati. A string of lights brightened the shadows between the trees in flickering waves.
“Get inside,” Brando said, turning me toward the front door. He nodded to Livio, giving him the signal to walk me there, though it was only a few steps away.
“No, do not leave, niece,” Lothario said, stepping down out of his car. “This concerns you as well.” The thick coat around his shoulders made him seem even wider, while his helping of salt and pepper hair paid homage to his maturity.
Rocco and Donato moved in closer, their men behind them. This seemed to concern Ciro, his mouthpiece, but instead of allowing the man to call on more of his, Lothario held up a hand, coming to stand closer to us. He kept his hand up but put down all but two thick fingers when he reached us. “This is how many days I give you,” he said to Brando, “until I speak to your wife alone. By the lemon trees, as my father did.”
“If I say no?” Brando said.
I looked between him and Lothario. Fear clasped my throat, and I found myself panting. Smoke huffed out of my mouth, clearly giving away my anxiety.
Lothario looked at me before he answered his nephew. “You will not. Not now. You went against me tonight, as you have gone against our family, your blood, most of your life. I will not forget it.”
I knew he wouldn’t, and that scared me. Ettore was beyond possessed with killing Brando to get him out of the way. Lothario had the same idea in mind, but he wouldn’t do it as savagely as his brother had. He was sneakier because he had to be. Nothing or no one would stop him from wearing the Fausti crown. He’d wait for the right moment—he was attempting to ally the family on his side—before he did something to remove Brando from the family permanently. He knew the family was split and didn’t want my husband to challenge him.
Lothario threw up the same hand in a wild motion, breaking the intense eye contact between him and Brando. He looked at me again. “Never have I seen this much trouble surrounding a woman since Maja!Le donne sono mortali come la battaglia.”Women are as deadly as the battle.
