Not that I was his wife, but I was the wife of his nephew, of his godson—and he’d wanted to sell me, thinking that my peculiar nature would bring in the big bucks. A woman who could hypnotize men by a dance.
“Maybe she just wanted him to love her, Brando.”
“At what—or whose—expense?”
The driver waited inside of the car, but Brando opened the car door for me. I dallied.
“True.” How many men had he killed? I didn’t even want to think of that. I could only pray for his soul. “But I can’t help feeling sorry for her. The men in your family have a…ah, a way of making women insane. It goes past the pet rabbit in the pot for them.”
“Tell me if I make you insane.” A mischievous glint came to his eye.
I teetered between slapping him and kissing him. “Yes, more than insane! You make me—GRR!”
“Grr,” he said, shaking his head. “I make my wifegrr!”
“Smart—”
He kissed me before I could call him a mean name.
“Scarlett Rose Fausti, if you ever attempt to take a lover, it won’t fucking end well,” he said, before I even opened my eyes. “For any of us.”
I kept my eyes closed. “Then never leave me.”
“We have no problem then.”
“No problem at all.”
“A man has to make sure.”
“Not my man,” I said. “This, between us, is a sure thing. I might call the world’s finest eye candy mine, but I know what lies in the depths of his heart.”
“Tell me,” he murmured against my lips.
“A huge Italian meal served on Sunday, cooked by mamma, one that nurtures and fills me up, close to bursting at the seams.”
He laughed against my lips, quiet but hard, resting his forehead against mine. We didn’t move for a minute or two, enjoying the closeness of each other, the warmth of our embrace.
Near the frozen silence and hard coldness of the place, it felt like tepid heaven.
A loud blast exploded in the air, sending birds shooting out of trees. Brando shoved me into the car, his body crushing mine in the process.
“Partire! Adesso!”Brando shouted at the driver before his legs were fully in the car.
The driver took this order seriously, tires squealing, smoke drifting into the air, as we were slammed into the back of the seat from the momentum of the car.
Brando braced himself, somehow folding himself in. We maneuvered so that he was able to shut the door and I was able to sit up. He’d thrown me in the car, but not before I caught sight of the men rushing toward the sound of the gunshot.
“Brando—”
He was too busy barking orders to the driver to answer me. His phone started to ring.
“Fausti,” he snapped.
He was quiet, listening to the voice on the other end. Then he hung up, his eyes dilated from the rush of adrenaline, his face as hard as stone.
“Was that one of the men calling?” I asked gently.
It took him a moment to look at me. Finally, he seemed to come back to himself, and he nodded.
