At my words, she turned around. Her eyes met the glare of the sun and reminded me of whiskey in a clear glass. Cat eyes, they reminded me of, with a long nose. She had a wide mouth, expressive, if it hadn’t been burdened by her solemn expression.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Who are you?” I countered back with.
Her eyes moved to Brando, almost narrowing as she took in his appearance. I noticed that he gazed back, not bothered by her attention—but irritated with me for not listening and moving. He’d had his fill of this place and wanted out.
Curiosity was a disease I had, though.
“No cure,” Brando mumbled underneath his breath, like he’d heard my thoughts.
“You belong to Luca.” She chucked her chin at Brando. “You could never be kept a secret, so this must be your wife.”
“Scarlett,” I said, holding my hand out to her.
She stared at me, leaving my hand hanging, deliberating. Finally, after I refused to lower my hand, she cracked—but only a little.
“Constantia,” she said, giving me not a shake but a touch. Close to a side five, but with barely a slap.
“Constant,” I said, nodding. “Steadfast. That’s what your name means. That’s why you’re here.”
Assessing me even deeper for a minute or two, she finally surprised me by laughing. An echoing snigger in the silent space. Even the men guarding the property stilled, narrowing their eyes at her in speculation.
They had lost one of their own, and who was this woman laughing at such a time? Which had been the point—whowasthis woman?
I had never even seen a woman with Ettore, neither had Brando, nor did the notion of marriage ever come up. It wouldn’t surprise me, though, if this woman turned out to be his wife. Ettore had been a private man in life, and he had lived by his own rules.
“Ah!” She said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, the rose still clutched in her grasp. “Ettore must have loved this one! If you are not familiar with sarcasm, let me school you. That was not meant to be taken seriously. You know too much. You feel too much. I am touched too, so I know these things.” She shrugged. “You are the one he called witch.”
Brando pulled the pocket square from his suit, handing it to her. She thanked him and then used the fabric to dab at her eyes.
“You smell good,” she said out of nowhere. “You smell like them.” Waving the pocket square, she took a deep, trembling breath. “They all have a scent about them. The Fausti men. It is alluring to the women, no? It is the scent of a real man.”
Brando turned his head a fraction, lowered his nose, and without drawing attention to himself, sniffed. I hid the twitch of my mouth.
Constantia caught it as well and shook her head. She sighed, a sad, almost wistful sound.
“You never answered my question,” I said, holding my ground. “Who are you?”
She shrugged, nonchalant, but there was weight to it that she couldn’t hide. “Constantia Fausti. Ettore’s wife.”
Though I had a feeling, the shock if it still took me by surprise. Where had she been all this time? Why wasn’t she the one next to him when he took his last breath? Did they have kids? A life? Or had he left her? Or her him? Were they estranged?
I expected Brando to be staring at her like I was, with a mind full of questions, but instead, he stared at me.
“A million thoughts exist in your eyes right now,” he murmured. “No fucking cure.” He shook his head.
“I see,” I said, ignoring him. “Were you married long?”
Brando groaned.
Constantia regarded me for a minute. “You cannot control this one, ah?” she said to Brando, then turned to me. “Ettore did not like what I could do. I can see things. When we were first married, I told him, one day he will die of his own sins. A woman, she will see him, I told him. Not long after, you will die.”
“My wife never told Ettore he would die,” Brando said almost defensively.
She shook her head, but it was me who answered.
“No,” I said. “It wasn’t me. It was Eva.”
