“Sì. When you go with the men to celebrate Signor Dario Fausti’s upcoming wedding,” Livio rolled on, completely unaware of the tension he had created.
Romeo started to whistle, his eyes roving from floor to ceiling.
“Signora Fausti,mySignora Fausti, Scarlett,mywife is going—” I rolled my shoulders.
Livio went to the mirror, checking his appearance, not paying any attention to me. “With the other women to celebrate. They are going to Scotland, Ireland, and Spain.Ricorda? Scarlett cannot wait to see Tenerife.”
“Is that so?” The words came out slow; I loosened the tie at my throat.
“This is news to me,” Tito said, standing taller, pushing up his glasses. “When did this plan take shape, nephew?” he asked Rocco.
“Ah—”
Father Zullo came in then, dressed in his robes, beckoning Livio forward. He asked us to follow. My brothers and Donato lined up, not meeting my eye. Tito seemed stung that he had been left out.
I looked up, closed my eyes, and said a silent prayer of thanks—thankful that I was in a house of God.
Chapter Six
Scarlett
My husband’s mood had started at the reception. Retract. It had started after he made it up the aisle, coming to sit next to me during the ceremony. I took his hand, moved by Livio and Santina’s vows, the look in their eyes, the sacrament itself—how many couples had recited those same sacred promises in the name of love over the years?
Brando ran his thumb over my skin, but he refused to look at me, and it was clear from the distant look on his face that he was present in body but not so much in mind.
The reception seemed to get under his skin and irritate him even more. He hardly spoke a word and was curt to most of the people who tried to strike up a conversation with him. When the dancing started, he took his place in the shadows, watching.
In the midst of his rising temper, my mother reminded me that we had the visit with Monica Attigliano and her mother, the Countess Sibilla. I had forgotten to tell Brando about the entire ordeal, with Lothario’s visit and then Livio stealing a bride and a priest in the middle of the night.
Not even Paolo Occhipinti’s violin strings could play Brando into a better mood.
Closer to the end of the reception, not long before the happy couple jetted off to Fiji—compliments of a call Brando made to Captain Tibbott O’Malley—Brando ordered Guido to stay with me while he stalked off with his brothers to have a private discussion with the groom. I had deduced from the raucous laughter, the thick smell of sweet cigar smoke, and the whiskey borne on the breeze that the men were giving Livio advice for the wedding night.
I had started when Rocco snatched my arm, giving Guido his pointer finger, pulling me into the thick mix of dancers.
“He knows,” he had said quickly, chancing a quick glance around. Brando could pop up out of nowhere. “Africa.”
He squeezed my arm, delivered me to Guido, and then disappeared into the shadows and scents of men.
“Merde,” I had said, pressing a palm to my forehead.
Needless to say, the ride home had been quiet. The tension in the car was as thick as the smell of cigar smoke that wafted off his jacket. He hadn’t had anything to drink. It wouldn’t have made a difference either way. He was wound tight, coiled and ready to spring.
“I—” I went to break the tension, to get it out in the open, air it out so we could move on.
As the words went to flow free, he held up a hand.
“But—”
Another hand.
I sighed.
Sick of the deafening silence, I dug in my purse and pulled out a CD Violet had given me. Brando looked over all of my contracts and such, as did Rocco, but Violet had become my assistant.
A famous musician had inquired about me going on tour with him as his personal dancer. Brando and I discussed the offer, but we both decided it wasn’t the right time, not with the threat of war in the near future.
The music that played was the musician’s new album.
