Brando leaned forward some and then settled once again in his seat. I could feel the tension in the car shift to code-red serious. “Two things, Scarlett Rose Fausti.” He lifted his pointer finger. “You only speak if spoken to, and only if I give you a nod.” His middle finger joined his first. “Two. You are stitched to my side. Do I make myself clear?”
“As crystal water—for the hundredth time.”
His mouth twitched as he took his fingers down. “Bene.” He kissed my hand.
“I—ah, I have some stipulations too.”
“Stipulations,ah?”
“I don’t plan on leaving this meeting a widow, Brando Piero Fausti. I refuse to know what this life feels like without you in it. If I pinch you or whisper that something is off,youlisten tomeand act accordingly. DoImake myself clear?”
He brought my hand to his mouth, squeezed, and then took in a lungful of the scent of my skin. “Mmm,” he said, kissing my wrist. “You smell so good.”
“Brando—”
“Did I tell you how gorgeous your eyes look today?” He quickly glanced at me. “It’s hard to describe them. But I’m going to try. I think it’s the—” he waved a hand, attempting to find the word he wanted to use “—the stuffyou put over your eyes that makes them change color sometimes. Maybe it’s your mood or the color of your clothes. Either way, the closer to the center of your eye, the color becomes even lighter, like when the sun hits the bottom of clear water and makes green sea glass shimmer. The rims are darker, more mysterious, the shaded part of the sea. The black line around the rim encloses the two colors, making you seem almost wicked. Inhuman even.”
I grinned. “The limbal ring. That’s the black line around the iris. It’s supposed to make your eyes seem more youthful and more attractive.”
“Is that what it is about you?” he mused.
I squeezed his hand hard enough that he accused me of attempting to break his knuckles—he even told me my Mafia name would be Scarlett “knuckle breaker” Fausti.
“Stop attempting to change the subject,” I said, becoming close to panicked. We were getting closer, the town starting to come into view. “DoI make myself clear or not?”
“Yeah, baby,” he said after some time. “You do.”
“Why was that so hard to agree to?”
“I don’t know,” he said, and I could tell he truly meant it. “But it was.”
* * *
A fly attempted to dive into my open mouth, and I closed it before he could make another attempt. The meeting was being held in a restaurant in the town proper, but in a place that could have been mistaken for any hole in the wall. There was not one thing about the restaurant that stood out to me, except for the fact that it was just…there.
We had all come to a casual party dressed in evening gown attire. The man who came out to meet Lothario was in a windbreaker, a casual shirt, and every-day slacks. He was older, with a set of spectacles that the ’80s wanted back. Square and dark, they fit his comb-over hairstyle. He had white socks on with black sandals. If all of the men inside were going to be dressed this way, no wonder they had it in for the Faustis.
We were told we had to dress this way. It was a family rule. This was business, and business would be conducted with respect to the job. I got the strong feeling the man who came out to greet Lothario thought we were pompous and should promptly be knocked down from our high horses. Preferably with a whip or apistola.
The Faustis called themsanguisughe—bloodsuckers—or if just one,sanguisuga—leech.I wondered if they called the Faustis something other than the Faustis? Such as,pavoni pomposi?Pompous peacocks.
Compared to the Fausti family’s meeting, I knew this was going to be night and day.
Uncle Tito came to stand next to us. The hair that traced his jaw and around his mouth was true silver in the sun, setting off his olive complexion and dark eyes. “Ready?” He asked us.
Brando took my hand and nodded.
Inside, the air smelled of Sunday dinner at Mamma’s. Garlic, oregano, basil, sage, and an undertone of fresh fish hung in the air. Men sitting at various tables were eating. I got the feeling they were not patrons but connected in some way. Their movements slowed as we entered their domain. Each man took us in with a wise eye.
I didn’t want to make full eye contact, so I stuck my chin up and stared forward at the man who led us further into the restaurant, through lines of tables, beyond a door that had shells strung up from the ceiling, past the kitchen, and into a private room.
Ten or so men sat around a business-style table, all smoking cigars and lounging in their seats. The dress code didn’t get any better, and neither did the feeling. Outwardly they were cordial enough, until Stone Face stood and demanded to know whythe wife, presumablyme, was there.
I knew he was Stone Face without introduction. The man gave nothing away, not even when he demanded answers for my presence. He had to be at least sixty years old. His salt and pepper hair was slicked back with strong-smelling pomade. His skin was tan but far from flawless, and he had a nose that could be only described as prominent. His suit was a step up from a windbreaker, but nothing close to the custom-made suits Brando and his family donned.
In the packet of information Violet had sent there was an article about the men around the table. It backed up Brando’s version of things—these people didn’t live lavishly; they kept quiet and to themselves. Upon one head’s arrest, they found him hunkered down in a bunker. Far from the lives the Faustislived. Somehow Brando’s family had learned to integrate with high society. These people hid from the world.
These men were human to a fault. The Faustis looked like they had just walked off a runway in Milan.
