When I did see them—Brando or Rocco were there to meet them, to handle the unloading of the truck—they unsettled me. They were genial enough, but there was a ruthlessness to them that was so strong, I could smell it on their skin, like a bloody perfume. The both of them were butchers. That wasn’t precisely what unsettled me though. It was the fact that men like them took direction from my husband.
There were two sides to my husband. The man he was with me. The beast he was with them.
One rainy day, as all of the bounty was being transported off the truck, Vincenzo moved into the doorway, cigarette burning red, paper shriveling with the inhale of his strong lungs. He seemed to have a habit of making an O with his lips, smoke drifting out in the same pattern.
“SignoraFausti,”he said, addressing me for the first time.
I glanced at him. He wasn’t looking at me. In profile, he displayed those same strong Fausti features, but with a white scar running the length of his left cheek.
“Is it true what they say about you?” he asked.
I was attempting to make the dough forsfogliatella, an Italian pastry stuffed with a ricotta and candied orange zest filling. The pastry blender sliced through the soft texture of the butter with a stronger thunk than intended. “What’s that?” I asked.
“That you are…speciale.”
“Special can have more than one meaning.” After I added the water to the mixture, I began to form a disc with the sticky dough, hands enjoying the texture of it. “Clarify.”
“Ah, you can feel things most people cannot. Say for example. Before Ciro attacked, you felt aviperaagainst your leg—you, your husband, and his brother were saved. Though there was noviperato be found, ah?”
I set the disc in a round bowl, covering it before I stuck it in the fridge. I took out milk, ricotta, and eggs, placing each one of the ingredients on the counter to make the filling. I kept my face intentionally blank, not wanting Vincenzo to see how much he had unnerved me.
Romeo must’ve told Guido, and Guido must’ve told Vincenzo. Those two were worse than gossiping old women sometimes. I didn’t want Livio to know this, to add to his grief. What if I could’ve saved his wife? Just by telling her to look under the table? But I didn’t. Again, I had unintentionally saved our lives. There was no snake.
I refused to play the blame game. I didn’t even blame Lothario, whom we had tried to warn, but who had refused to bring the night to a close before the speeches were given. How was he supposed to know? How were any of us supposed to know for sure? All I had were feelings, and sometimes feelings could be wrong.
I refused to answer Vincenzo. Instead, I asked him to retrieve the other items needed from the pantry—the candied orange bits and cinnamon. The other items, like flour and sugar, I had already set out for the dough.
He brought them to me, setting them down gently, getting closer to me than ever before. “What…” His breath held the stench of smoke, but also mint. His eyes were as dark as coals, but in some indefinable way, handsome. His sharp features gave him that powerful Fausti look. “Do you feel what I am?”
“Too close,” I said.
He threw back his head and laughed. Then he shook a long, thick finger at me.
“They tell me you are not only beautiful but have a sense of humor too. You are rare. Tell me,Signora Fausti…” He ran his pointer finger and thumb around the shape of his mouth. “Do you have a temper to go with the beauty?”
A knife sat on the counter. It was a nice size blade, one suited for chopping hard vegetables.
I lifted it up and brought it down with a blow to the wooden cutting board that reverberated through my wrist. It trembled for a second before the blade relaxed and stood on its own.
“No,” I said, refusing to acknowledge his reaction. “I don’t have a temper.”
He made a breathless noise, an impressed sound.
“Vincenzo,” Brando said, coming into the kitchen. The look on his face and the tone of his voice made his mood clear. He had been looking for the man. He wasn’t impressed to find him standing next to me in the kitchen. “Al di fuori. Adesso.”
Vincenzo flashed me a wide smile, so white in contrast to the darkness of his face. He turned to go outside, as Brando had ordered him to, but stopped when he was face to face with him. “A woman like her is rare to have on your team. Do not let the world know that she can feel,” Vincenzo told Brando in Italian. He turned to glance at me once more. “Among all of the other attributes that make her who she is,”he added.
Brando glared at him, but I could tell he didn’t disagree. “My wife has no skill with a knife.” He nodded to the blade sticking out of the cutting board. “That is my specialty. I take no issue with using it to protect her either.”
“I have heard.” Vincenzo’s lip curled, showing one of his solid white teeth. He patted Brando on the shoulder.“To protect that one, you will need to lock her up in a high tower.”
Afterward, he ducked his head, going back out into the rain. Brando turned the glare on me, warning me to keep away from him. I protested that I hadn’t soughthimout, he had foundme. This didn’t seem to appease him. From then on, delivery days included him standing at the kitchen door.
* * *
The rain droned on, making the air feel colder, and I shivered. Whether it was from the drop in temperature or from the memory of Vincenzo, I wasn’t sure. It was hard not to think about him sometimes and what his presence meant in our lives.
Though Brando didn’t trust Vincenzo with me, I knew the man’s words, along with Santina’s father’s warning, had been weighing on his mind. I could feel his deliberation. He was seriously weighing his options—send me away or allow me to stay. Once he made up his mind, there was no changing it. He would have a mighty fight on his hands if he thought he could just leave me behind.
