Scarlett
If I stood idle for too long, a mishmash of nightmares played behind closed lids.
When the sun would hit the darkness, I could see blood bursting through veins and staining all that it touched. If the smell of a slaughtered animal breezed past my nose, I found myself heaving over whatever was in close distance. The sight of butchered animals seemed barbaric to me, inhumane and cruel. The violence behind the act was too much to even contemplate.
To combat the suppressed terror and overwhelming grief, I left no second open to quiet or reflection.
It had been a month since the attack. A month since Ciro and his men ran through Stefano’s kitchen, guns blazing, attempting to kill us all by herding us into a corner to be shot like trapped animals.
Ciro knew the restaurant had only two doors, one through the kitchen, and one to the restaurant itself. He used the setup to his advantage, along with the element of surprise.
Lothario left the villa after that conversation, relations between him and Brando strained. Lothario had made no secret of the trouble he thought I was, before or ever, and his wife had similar feelings about the matter.
Somehow, this all fell into my lap. Brando resented them for putting it there.
I couldn’t say that I blamed Lothario and his wife, but on the other hand, how could I change who I was born to be? I never asked for any of this. True, I should’ve never danced on the stage at the rat’s club, under the impression that it was a simple dance or not, but just because I did didn’t give him the right to plant a dark seed of doom in our lives for the sake of profit.
The entire line that led to where we were could be traced back to the dark beast—Nemours. He was as unassuming as money, his true nature the greed that tainted it green.
It seemed like Ciro followed that same vein and found vulnerability. He had decided that his line needed to be restored and, therefore, we needed to be destroyed.
Tension seemed to rise even higher when Rocco thrust papers in front of us, a disbelieving look on his face. Marzio and Grazia were both wealthy, and not just from one side. She was an heiress and also one of the most popular actresses in Italy. Marzio came from blood money, and he had made more of his own. He had many successful endeavors—the perk of being the leader, or king, of one of the most notorious criminal families in history.
Marzio was smart when it came to investing. He owned properties all throughout Europe and even some in America. Some were used as high-priced rentals. Others, like the villa in Positano, were for personal use and had sentimental value.
Marzio was also a man who planned for all contingencies. Given the danger of his “profession,” he knew all of the risks and accepted them—then planned accordingly, even down to his mortality. Therefore, before he died, he had a stringent will drawn up. After Brando had appeared in his life, he had it redrawn to accommodate Luca’s oldest.
In his will, he had left the villa in Positano to Brando, but Lothario failed to mention this until Rocco found the paperwork and looked it over. Places in Greece, Spain, and Portugal had gone to Rocco, Dario, and Romeo, respectively. None of this was mentioned as well.
It was Bela who took issue with the villa in Positano. Apparently, she had a personal interest in it. Lothario looked drawn and defeated. The way in which Bela carried on about this “discovery” made my alliance with Maggie Beautiful even stronger.
I understood why she didn’t want a thing from the Faustis. It came with the price of resentment and bitterness.
Brando didn’t seem to want it either, but he refused to say as much. Marzio had felt the need to give it to him, and that meant a great deal, I could tell. Marzio had accepted Brando, and he had thought so much of him, he gave him the place he had cherished over the years because it was special to him and Grazia.
We were still at the villa, a bit more peaceful since Bela and Lothario left. Bela went back to Milan, while Lothario and his brothers headed to Sicily, where he called a meeting with thefamiglia. The family met four times a year during normal circumstances, but in times of change, or war and strife, more often. Rocco sometimes referred to them asil consiglio:the council, or the more literal translation,advice.
Brando felt the villa, since it was outward facing, was as close as we were going to get to a fortress, at the moment. I wasn’t sure if I could ever travel back to Positano without an overwhelming sadness engulfing me. At every turn there was something to remind me of the loss we had endured.
All of our dead had been taken home. Thomas went home to his parents. Paolo Occhipinti to his wife and children. A few other men that I had only known in passing but had never spoken to had been laid to rest. Most of these men belonged to Lothario. These were men with names and families and stories, and they were dead because of some war that had no true cause. No real heart.
Then there was Santina.
Livio was a ghost of his former self. He did nothing but smoke cigarettes and sit around with his gun, staring into the horizon as if he waited for it to claim him. Refusing to escort his wife home, or to even attend her funeral, he existed as a shell.
Her parents had made all of the arrangements, deciding where to bury her. The only contribution Livio made was to request that she be buried with her ring, that his last name be the one on her gravestone, and that her lace wedding veil be draped over the open coffin to shroud her face.
Her mother and father, along with her sisters, made their way from Tuscany, requesting to speak to the Fausti family.
Grief consumed them from the inside out. The hope that sprang up when they arrived at the villa made my heart constrict—it was as though each turn held the expectation that their daughter and sister would be there, perhaps out on the terrace, or laughing in the hall, this all one horrid nightmare that couldn’t be true.
Santina’s essence echoed in the villa. The scent of her light perfume, her laughter, and the undeniable spirit that had been a beautiful part of who she was had been encapsulated in that great villa on the mountainside, facing sea and sand.
It was true, though—she was gone, and her father seemed to realize this as he sat across from Brando and Livio at the enormous table, depressingly empty, save for us. His eyes were bloodshot and angry, belying the tremble in his hands. I stood behind Brando, as still as a shadow, but wanting him to know that I was there, the other half to his whole.
Santina’s father tapped his short, blunt pointer finger, calloused and lined, against the wood.
“You sat at my table and tried to convince me that my daughter should be allowed to coexist in thislife.” He refused to look at Livio, who stared at him with no emotion showing on his face. No anger, no anguish, nothing but an eerie void. “She was stolen from me! My hand forced! There was nothing I could do. Butyou! You could have stopped this madness. My daughter would be here with us today! Love! Ach! Happy with him—” He lifted a hand to Livio. “Just as happy with another and still alive to give us grandchildren!”
