Once his mind settled, he found me watching him. He said something to me that I wasn’t sure I heard correctly.
“Say that again.” I stuck up my chin.
He did, in Italian this time. “I married you. Only I fuck you. Therefore, the only name you go by ismine.” Then he ordered me to our room—low-voiced, menacing, reflecting a cold so frozen in his veins that I wasn’t sure if the sun could even thaw it out.
I realized that there was no one in the room but us, but his words were a slap to the face. Damned if I’d let him see it. “Not right now,” I said, equally low-voiced. I stood taller, refusing to move my eyes from his.
Nodding, he rubbed his lip, sniffed, and then started taking slow, deliberate steps toward me. I kept my feet firmly in my spot—mine.
Brando had taught me two valuable lessons after I married him. First lesson: I didn’t have to move for anyone but him. Second lesson: I didn’t move if I didn’t want to—even for him. I had just as much of a hold on him as he had on me.
I was putting lesson two to good use.
“Entra nella stanza.” He came down close to my face. The whiskey fumes were so strong that I almost wrinkled my nose. “Adesso.”Get in the room. Now.
I raised my face higher, fists clenched at my sides.“Non lo farò,” I said slowly, punctuating each word, defiance seeping through my tone as much as the ice seeped through his.I. Will. Not.
He turned on me so fast that I winced. One of the damask chairs flew through the room, whizzed like an overweight arrow, until it crashed into the fireplace, sending fragments of glass and wood flying through the air. A long moment later, he disappeared, going in the direction of our room.
Romeo and Rocco stood in the doorway, both men watching me. I nodded to them and they each nodded back.
I hadn’t realized that I had collapsed to the floor until Violet knelt next to me, asking if I was all right. My husband would never lay a hand on me, I knew him better than that—I had pushed him close to the edge many times before, but he would turn on himself before he turned on me. I was always safe with him. And there was the problem.
He didn’t feel safe.
Still, standing up to him was a lot like being deathly close to an inferno at times—or that monster that came out to play when men challenged him.
Brando Piero Fausti was used to getting what he wanted, when he wanted. From menandwomen. Men feared him, respected him, though some of them tested him. Not without knowing what they were about first. Women gave in to his demands because he was physically stunning. You didn’t see men like him often, unless they were in magazines, and even some of the men that graced those pages didn’t carry an iota of the charisma Brando did. He oozed virility and the truth—I know how to please a woman.
I waved a hand. “I’m fine. Or I will be.”
She pulled me closer, taking my hand in hers. My hand trembled. It wasn’t from fear of him, but fear of what could have happened in this room. I felt him on a level almost incomprehensible to me.
“Instead of balls, it’s a good thing we have tits. Those things are stronger. You don’t know your strength until a baby gets a hold of them, especially during the teething months.”
I almost laughed, but didn’t.
She sighed. “He’s had a lot to drink, Sandy. He’s not in his right mind.”
I grinned weakly at the nickname. “No,” I agreed. “He’s not.” But hell if I would accept that as an excuse for bad behavior.
“Whyareyou pushing this?” she said, not judging, but more curious. “It’s not like you to want him to go—to be separated from him, I mean.”
“He needs this. He’s afraid to let me go. He needs to know that I’m going to live, even when he’s not around.”I need to know it too, I thought, but didn’t add.
She gave me a dubious look. I pinched her. She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“Okay.” She stood, hands on hips, glancing around the flat. “I’m going to start cleaning up.”
I shook my head. “No, he’ll do it.”
“All right,” she said. “I’m going to make sure I have everything for tomorrow morning then. And call my mom, to double check she has all of the numbers.”
The interviewer walked back in, ready to begin again. I had forgotten that she even existed. She brought in the scents of hot London streets and cigarette smoke.
“Ready to pick up?” Her eyes roved over the mess, but she didn’t comment on it. She had traveled with a bunch of rock stars, she had mentioned earlier—this mess was rudimentary.
“Yes. Of course.” I stretched my legs, as though this was a normal thing for me to do during an interview. Then I rose, taking a seat on the sofa. I’d face Brando later, but it would be at my time.
