“No! Bran—”
He stormed off again before I could respond. I made it just in time to see him snatch the keys to his Ducati off the peg and shut the door with a soft click as he went outside into the night, becoming part of it. He shouted at the men in Italian, telling them to get their asses in gear—he wanted some of them inside the villa.
The Ducati roared to life, the fast wheels sending the gravel flying, and I went in search of—my knees almost gave out when I found it. His helmet was where he had last left it. It was in the dining room, by the fireplace.
“Oh, Brando,” I sniffed.
“Bella.” Rocco’s voice seemed to come out of the night. “Dammi.”Give me.
He went to take the helmet—I hadn’t realized it was clutched to my chest—but I took a step back. The Ducati was matte black. Brando was dressed from head to toe in black. No one would be able to see… My chest constricted and squeezed my heart to the point where I couldn’t breathe. “Go after him!” I would’ve shouted, but my voice refused to rise. “He needs this!”
“Bella,” Rocco said, his voice attempting to coax a wild animal into the safe arms of a friend. “I could not catch him if I tried. He will be all right. He needs to, ah, burn off some steam, as you say.”
I collapsed on the edge of the fireplace, bricks hard underneath the cotton pajamas I had put on. The helmet was solid against my stomach, an unpleasant reminder of what he didn’t have to protect him.
Rocco got down on one knee before me. “Let us have a drink together. A drink will make the time pass. Then he will be back. We can talk to him.”
I went to open my mouth, to say that talking to him together wouldn’t be such a good idea, but I realized that he didn’t mean together. Just that all together, perhaps, we could make him see reason.
I followed Rocco into the kitchen.
“Wine?” I offered.
“Grazie.” Rocco stood with his back to the counter, eyes on me. He grinned when I took out a beer for myself and popped the top by using the counter. Then he raised a brow. “Birra. That does not seem like such aBellathing to do.”
“I get a taste for it now and again.”
“I’ll take one as well.”
I nodded. I popped his top and handed it to him. Mitch had decided not to go to the wedding, and he was somewhere close, strumming his guitar. He had written a new song, something about shattered halos. It was slow, and about lost love and all that.
“This is good.” Rocco lifted his bottle. “So is the song.”
“Yes,” I agreed, not looking at him. The “Fausti look” was coming over his eyes, and I didn’t need any trouble. He wasn’t drunk, but I could tell that he felt no pain. He had been knocking them back at the wedding. “Where’s Rosaria?”
He waved a hand. “Went back to Milan.”
I nodded, not commenting, and then took a seat at the table. Not sure what else to say. But I was too nervous to do anything but sit and wait.
Dammit, Brando!
To his credit, Rocco sat with me and made idle chit chat while we waited together. He went over the schedule for Africa—it seemed like a lot of fun. Then he asked me why Scotland and Ireland. I explained to him that I had an aunt in Scotland, my father’s sister, and it would be nice to explore castles and listen to some music in legit Irish pubs. Most of all, Carmen wanted to go.
Spain? Carmen hadn’t been since she was a girl.
The “Fausti look” smoothed over into something more complacent and he settled into his chair. His eyes were still on me, though, steady and glistening. It looked like he wanted to say something.
“What?” I asked, taking a sip of beer.
“Ah.” He leaned forward and pushed the beer to the side. He held his hands in front of him. “If the decision had been mine to make, I would have not permitted him to marry you.”
“Who?” came my brilliant reply, but my mouth was too fast for my brain. I knew exactlywho. My husband. His brother. “Never mind.” I waved a hand. “Why?”
“You are notItaliano.”
“Yes I am!” I defended.
“Not full.”
