“I will never lose her again,” he said. “You will speak to your wife. You will ask her what is wrong with my Wildflower. Then you will tell your wife to tell the God who created such a creature for me that if He tries to take my wife fromme, this world will not be safe. I will burn it down.”
He walked out then, heading toward the terrace.
“My Funny Valentine” played softly in the background.
I watched from the shadows as he moved, bending over Maggie Beautiful to wake her up. They must have been sharing a blanket when she’d fallen asleep, a book next to her. He’d been reading to her. Of all things, a romance book.
Maggie Beautiful had giggled like a girl when he’d noticed that she’d crossed out the hero’s name, replacing it with his. Something she had made into a habit in his absence.
Maggie Beautiful muttered something low in her sleep, touching his face. He assured her that he was taking her to bed and would be there when she woke up again.
It was all so domestic, but under the surface, he frothed. I caught the glint of steel in his eyes, made even colder by the moon, when he held her closer, glaring out at the island where she’d gotten married to Aberto.
Luca had killed the man. Stolen the heart out of his chest.
Luca was taking this battle to a spiritual level. Maybe he felt that the ghost of the man was coming back for her, trying to take her away from him again.
As to what he was referring to—was she sick? Or was someone going to try to kill her? I had no fucking clue.
It worried me, though, because he was right. As attuned to Scarlett as I was, even though she was the one who felt, my feelings belonged to her. If there was something wrong with her, some subterranean sense told me so before she could even make sense of it.
“Ding, dang, dong…Frère Jacques.”
The singing voice startled me from my thoughts, bringing me back to the veranda, where my daughter was fixing my hair, singing softly to me in French.
“Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous? Sonnez les matines! Sonnez les matines!Ding, dang, dong.”
Scarlett had been teaching her. They sang the song often, especially while Scarlett had her in the kitchen and they cooked. Mia liked to get her hands messy.
Ending the song, she set her lion aside, playfully bopping me on the nose.
“Papà,Papà,Papà,” she sang, touching her nose to mine, then kissing my eyes.
“Daddy loves that one,” I spoke to her in Italian, kissing her cheeks, keeping her steady with my hands. Humongous compared to how small she was. “That’s my favorite. I love when you sing to me, my heart.”
She giggled, scrunching up her nose, reminding me of Maggie Beautiful. Which sent a jolt to my heart, the uncertainty almost too much.
What was going on with her?
Scarlett hadn’t mentioned feeling that something was wrong, and I knew when she was hiding things from me. Besides, she wouldn’t keep it from me, even if she knew the news might destroy me.
Mia was about to sing again when the men in the yard caught her eye.
“Who dat?”
I laughed when her eyes narrowed. She was a Fausti all right. Suspicious before her mother’s genes took over and she became friendly.
“Papàhired those men.” I lifted her up, but before I could go far, she reached out for her lion, wanting it.
Scooping it up, I took her to the edge of the veranda so she could see better. She looked out over the yard, her eyes following the action.
Two young men stood around an old man, Signor Agosto Fucilla, who was doing most of the work, only asking for assistance occasionally.
“I hired them to plant roses for Mamma. Do you think she’ll like them?”
“Flowers.” Her eyes brightened. She sniffed and then wrinkled her nose. “No smell it?” She lifted her hands in anwhat’s up with thatgesture.
I kissed her cheek. “The roses are babies right now and don’t have a smell. They will, though, once the sun and water helps them grow.”
