This was unlike him, though. We were on unsteady ground.Tread lightly, the voice in my brain warned.For now.
“A minute,” he repeated, cocking his head to the side. “A minute here. Two minutes there. How about three fucking weeks. Maybe that’s not enough time for you. Maybe a month or two would do.”
Violet cursed under her breath. The interviewer started to chew her nails, but she buzzed with intrigue. When Brando got mad, it could be a fearful thing. I had seen powerful men turn to water in the face of it. But he also became this primal animal that I just wanted to—
“Crikey,” the interviewer whispered. “Is he a model? I need to know, so I can put it in the article. No.” She frowned for a moment. “That’s not right. He’s a diver. I remember. Heshouldbe a model, that’s what they all say. He’s got really nice hair. And teeth. And his body… How often does he work out? We could do an article on his physique alone.”
“You should go—” Violet started to say, going for the woman’s arm.
The interviewer deflected, shook her head, and kept her bottom on the chair. “I’m not through with my interview.”
“Brando,” my voice cracked on his name. I was actually livid, but I didn’t want to start this here, not with this woman ready to write a book about the beautiful Fausti with the hot Italian temper. It wasn’t just a stereotype. The Faustifamigliahad legendary tempers, hence, their line of—for lack of a better word—work.
“Then get on with it!” Violet hissed. She was near to getting short with the woman, sensing the ticking bomb in the corner.
The woman asked a few more questions—most of them involved Brando and our relationship. I answered. So did he. Smart, flippant remarks that sometimes made my cheeks turn red.
“Does he ever dance with you?” she asked. “Oh!” She held a finger up, searching in her bag for her chirping phone. “I’m going to step out for a moment. I have to take this.”
I sighed and glanced down at my nails. I found relief in the interviewer’s absence. I needed a moment to answer, to think of a retort that would leave him without one.
Violet’s subtle gasp made me lift my head and turn in the direction of the oncoming fire. I cursed underneath my breath.
The man had come in earlier—his job title was uncertain—and he consistently called me Ms. Poésy regardless of how many times Violet and I had attempted to correct him. I had gone by Fausti ever since I married Brando. There were other times mistakes were made. I had danced most of my life under that name. But the mistake would be cleared up fairly quickly and life went on. Brando took it seriously, though, and would correct them if the mistakes were made in front of him.
There was no correcting this man. He just didn’t get it. Or didn’t want to. I knew what was coming. Violet attempted to deflect him before he made it to me, but in doing so, she inadvertently caused him to do it again.
“Ms. Poésy!” he called, sidestepping her flailing arms.
“Fausti!” Violet said, tugging on his arm. “Her name is Fausti!” She also called him a twat, but he was too intent on making it to me to even notice.
“Ms. Poésy!” he said again. This time the blatant disregard was noticeable. He wanted to call me Ms. Poésy, correction be damned.
This stirred the pot. Violet’s insistence and the man’s stubbornness brought more light to the situation. All of a sudden, the man stopped, as though his instincts told him to move no further and play dead. He sensed a bigger threat in his space.
“Repeat that. The name you called my wife.” Brando stepped out of the shadows, more drunk than I had originally thought. But even for all of that, he was in total control of himself—at the moment. He rolled his shoulders.
The man swallowed, his Adam’s apple barely visible through the thick roll around his neck. I couldn’t say anything, not a word, knowing that if I made a move to defend the man, it would send Brando off the rails.
Say you made a mistake!I attempted to plead through telekinesis. For some reason, though, I already knew this man was going to be stubborn. I guess there was a reason why Violet was not the only one calling him twat all day.
“Ms. Poésy,” he said, but he didn’t turn around. Sweat beaded on his wide forehead, and I could smell the fear from his pores, which weren’t all that pleasant to begin with. “Hername, sir!”
I had to give it to him. He rallied. However, I doubted that he would’ve continued to do so if he turned around. Sometimes you convince yourself that the beast behind you is not as big as your mind is conjuring it to be. He was wrong, if his thoughts were along those same lines.
“Bran—!”
Before I could finish screaming out his name, Brando drug him back, feet scraping the floor, pinning him up against the wall, a thick and powerful hand around his meaty throat.
Total chaos ensued. Violet shouted for Mick or Mitch, one of them, and then Donato rushed in, followed by Brando’s brothers. Heads peeked out of rooms, bodies rushing in to see what the fuss was about. All of the men smelled like a pub but sobered up in no time. They were attempting to talk Brando off the ledge. I couldn’t move. I could only watch in horror, like watching a train wreck, and I worried.
As terrible as it sounded, I was worried that the man would press charges, or worse,end up dead, and Brando would be arrested in London.
It was Romeo who got through to him. He spoke calmly in Italian, reminding him that there were women in the room, including his wife. Sense. Brando made it and let the man go. The man spluttered, patting at his neck, hardly able to stand. Uncle Tito shook his head and steadied the man, calling to Donato to follow.
Donato was the clean-up man. He would settle the issue.
Nothing was settled. Brando was off like a freight train, spitting off Italian curses and shouting about disrespect. I knew this man, and he wasn’t my husband—he wasn’t even the beast. He was highly intoxicated and fired up. He raged against the unknown. It was so clear in his eyes.
