“Mamma,” Brando said, reaching out for my hand. I took it and stood next to him. “This is my wife.”
Rosa seemed hurt and took a step back. I was waiting for her to stomp her foot.
“She isItaliano,” Rocco added. Brando shot him a look, clearly perturbed that his brother was attempting to sell me. I knew Brando, and he didn’t care what she thought. “Her grandfather is Matteo Ballerini.”
“The famous painter?” Mamma eyed me with even more suspicion. She probably thought that this was a lie I had concocted to get Brando to marry me.
“The one,” Rocco answered again.
“Ah.” She waved a hand—this was no deal, it apparently meant. “She still cannot cook!” Then she called me something that sounded rude.
Mamma shoved Rosa to the front again, and then she went off in a fast tangent of Sicilian. Romeo came to my side and whispered in my ear that she was attempting to convince Brando that I was too thin to bear his children, I didn’t have the hips for it, but Rosa was meant to have strong children.His.
Brando’s eyes dulled before they flared with indignant anger. I took my husband by the arm and then asked Romeo to translate for me.
He did, with a smile on his face. Mamma, Maria, and Rosa stared at me as if I had grown three heads—I guess threatening to slap Rosa with her wooden cooking spoon if she came a step closer to my husband was impolite of me. At this point in the proceedings, I felt territorial.
Then I snatched her cooking spoon from her, a real thick wood, and attempted to snap it in two like a twig. Not happening. The damn thing wouldn’t break—just my effing luck.
Romeo took pity and did the honors for me. I handed it back in two parts with a serene smile on my face.
“Ah!” Mamma waved her hand. She said something that made the men grin. She took Maria’s hand and then turned toward what I assumed was the way to the kitchen.
The sweet smell of basil danced in the air, an undertone of tomatoes and sage following in its steps. Rosa took another long look at Brando and then glanced down at the two pieces of wood in her hand. She followed the two older women a second later.
“What did Mamma say?” I whispered to Brando as we followed Rocco to our room.
“She said that our sons might not have wide shoulders like me, but at least they’ll have big balls.”
“What would you prefer?” I asked him. “Wide shoulders or big balls?” He hadboth, in spades.
“I’d prefer a girl that looked like you, Ballerina Girl.”
The sigh that sounded like it came from the angels above my head actually came from me.
* * *
Our room was spacious, with chipped paint on the walls, a mixture of white and the palest of reds, and an iron bed with a painted picture of the Blessed Virgin Mary in its center. It boasted a romantic fireplace and a window that overlooked the hills of Bagheria. In the distance, the shimmering green sea glinted like the clearest of glasses. Right below us grew a fragrant rose garden in full bloom. A plush crimson over-sized velvet cushion had been set below the window to lounge on.
The air in the room was cool, but far from cold with rays from the hot sun entering through the open window. The scents from the kitchen lingered. Every so often the softer scents of roses and the beach would rise up when the wind blew.
Brando turned from me, leaning over to retrieve a new shirt and a fresh pair of jeans. While his bare back faced me, his jeans unbuckled and hanging from his hips, I kicked off my tennis shoes, slipped out of my jeans, and removed my shirt.
“Time for a—”
As he turned around, continuing to speak, I catapulted myself at him. He took me in with anoof!before he reacted. His fresh clothes fell to the floor, and he started to kick his boots off. His jeans and boxer briefs were discarded next. His mouth and hands were as wild as mine.
He let me throw him to the thick pillow on the floor, and I climbed over him, a feral desire to have him inside of me snuffing out everyone and everything but us.
He had deft fingers, quickly releasing me from the constraints of my bra, and my breasts rejoiced at the feel of the cool air and freedom. One leg on each side of his waist, I lifted so that he could slide the stretchy lace from my hips, fingers trailing as soft as the fabric along my skin, over my behind, making a show of it.
“Cosabella,” he whispered, elongating the word and using his tongue like a sexual toy.Beautiful thing.When his fingertips came to my heels, he traced his initials on each one, slow and soft; I closed my eyes and slowly came down on him, his touch and his smell like an aphrodisiac. It took time for me to take him all in. He filled me so completely that I made a noise that seemed to come from outside of myself, released into a world that didn’t seem to belong to me.
I only belonged to him and the world we created together.
He cursed, and then a groan loud enough to rattle bone sent a shock of pleasure through my already sensitive flesh. He reached up, my hair sticking to my skin from perspiration, and removed it with the lightest of touches. "Stai andando a fuoco."
The lowering sun coated the room in a fierce glow, orange and red, engulfing us in its effulgence as it balanced on the horizon. The sunset was like fire—and I knew that was what he had meant when he saidyou are on fire.
