Romeo had asked to borrow my camera earlier to capture a few shots. He looked impeccable himself, in a similar style to his older brother, but was not partaking in the festivities. Donato, Guido, and Rocco were, though, and I almost grinned when I saw Chiara stride across the lawn toward her husband, ready to take action.
Catching my mean eyes before my husband, Romeo grinned up at me and snapped off a picture. I made an extremely rude Italian gesture toward him that included a hand in the crook of the opposite arm, and this, Brando caught.
He lifted his arms and smiled at me, and even though my face was stern, my knees went a little weak. “Baby,” he yelled, real innocent. “The kids wanted to play.”
I rarely fussed over his clothes, but the days leading up to this meeting had worn me thin, and I wasn’t in the mood to be trifled with. The first meeting felt safer—this one, not so much.
Without warning, one of the boys kicked the soccer ball toward Brando’s face. The entire group of kidsoohdandahhhdwhen Brando lifted his hand, his eyes never wavering from the balcony, and the ball bounced off his palm, right into the waiting ring of kids.
“You look gorgeous,” was the last I heard as I turned and stormed back into the bathroom to finish getting ready. Moreoohs, but this time dubious, and from the men.
Picking through all of the cosmetic paraphernalia on the counter, I attempted to calm myself by finishing my makeup. Before the ballet, the ritual calmed me. The motions helped ease me into character, setting me in the zone. As hard as I tried to do that then, it was difficult.
Of course, I had never had to face down a dozen or so members of a dangerous criminal gang either, so there was a big difference. But as with any other role, I’d do whatever was required of me.
It had been decided that I would accompany the men to the meeting, for a couple of different reasons. The main one was that Brando didn’t trust anyone to keep an eye on me. We still didn’t know who our Judas was, and until then, it was our close group or no one. And since our close group was all going to be there, he wanted me with him.
Another important reason was that I could feel what the other side refused to say.
Giovi Spataro, who was the equivalent of Lothario, was known as “Stone Face.” If the hearsay was correct, he had no feelings or emotions. Zero. And I wasn’t sure how this was going to bode for us—I had a hard time reading both Ciro and Collette, so how was I supposed to understand a man named Stone Face?
Setting down the mascara wand, I set both palms against the counter, my eyes catching a glimpse of the worried woman staring back at me, before my lids closed on reality. Taking a few deep breaths in and then releasing them slowly, I attempted to find my center and draw the scattered pieces of myself into it.
“Scarlett.”
I jumped, and my hand flew to my heart to stop its attempted escape out of my mouth. Lipstick, hairspray, scented cream, and the wand all collided with the floor. “Shit!” I hissed, bending down to get it all.
Brando met me on the floor, putting a hand over mine to stop me from picking up the mess. Our hands stayed that way while my eyes stayed to the ground, until he called my name once more.
“I’m scared,” I admitted. I had been stoic up until this point. Brando’s blasé attitude made me more nervous for some reason. The day of the family meeting he was the more anxious one, though no one but me could tell. In that moment, he was a rock.
“Stand up,” he ordered. He gave me a hand up, and we stood together for a minute or two, my knees knocking. “Finish getting ready.” He placed the last of the scattered items from the floor back on the counter. Then he stood with his back to the door, watching me through the mirror.
He had watched me numerous times while I did this ritual before the ballet, and for whatever reason, I felt steadier with him behind me. He was able to chase the shadows away while I worked to ready myself with a calm hand.
I never allowed anyone into my dressing room before a performance—not even my mother or Maja. I claimed that precious time as my own. Except for one exception. Brando.
The truth was, he could be so quiet that it was sometimes like being alone, but his heart was close to mine, and that gave me even more peace and strength.
Setting the lipstick down, I asked him to hand me the dress he had chosen. It was a raven colored number, curve hugging, like second skin, long sleeved, with a thick leather belt around my waist. A pair of Maja’s vintage heels pulled together the morose ensemble. My hair fell at its natural center part, and I stuck the bottom half into a low chignon.
I looked the part of an Italian wife—Brando Piero Fausti’swife. I realized then, as I stared at him through the mirror’s reflection, that he was the perfect representation of Italy—he had roots in each part: Warm to the heart, as gorgeous as the Mediterranean Sea, as strong as the towering mountains that rose to touch the azure sky, as unpredictable and explosive as Mount Vesuvius in Pompeii, all of his secrets and desires and emotions buried beneath his surface like a breathtaking mosaic.
He was Italy incarnate, born from her roots. The vision the Faustifamiglialonged to see and show off.
La mia parola è buona quanto il mio sangue.My word is as good as my blood.The words never meant as much as they did in that moment.
Taking a step closer, he wrapped an arm around my waist. “Tu chi sei?”Who are you?He asked, though it rarely was a question with him.
“Sono tua moglie,” I answered, no hesitation.I amyour wife.
“Come ti chiami?”What’s your name?
“Scarlett Rose Fausti.”
He nodded once, slow, and then ran a thumb across his bottom lip, his eyes locking me in, unable to move my gaze from his. His hand came to my throat, sliding against the pulse in my neck, and I tilted my head to rest on his palm. “Il mio,” he said. “The only person, place, thing on this earth that belongs to me. No one touches what’sminebut me.”
“Yes, “I whispered. “Yours. All yours.”
