Luca Faustiwasgood with women. He seemed to read them as easily as he read an Italian book. Though he started off by saying that I was different, he followed it up with all the things he felt were beautiful about me.
Not once did I feel lacking. In fact, his words had a contrary effect on me, but perhaps it was more than him though.
Perhaps because my husband loved me so fully, and always made me feel as though I were the most beautiful woman in the room, it didn’t matter what other people thought of me. I knew how Brando felt about me. He never left it to question. Through words or through actions—mostly actions—he never left me feeling wanting. That was more than enough to sustain me, to make me feel like a real woman.
Other than my husband’s opinion, my own was the only other one that mattered.
“You know,” I said, after a few minutes went by, “it’s really not fair what the Fausti men can do to womenkind.I never had a chance. One look, and I doubt any woman has a chance. The Fausti men slay.”
“Ah!” He laughed again, such a delighted look on his face that I almost forgot for a moment what a monster this man could be.
Not to women. No. Never. But to the men—he would slaughter. His parting words to Ercole rang true.I do not mind holding a heart in my hand that beats to the sound of my blood.
I do not mindmeant that if you lift a hand toward him, he will lift two toward you, family or not.
The rest of the drive seemed to fly by as we mostly discussed the ballet. He mentioned seeing me on the television, and a few times dancing in the yard of the villa, but not having the pleasure to see me up on stage. I told him that at some point in time, perhaps I would return for a show or two, but nothing was in the cards yet. I was too busy with our children.
When the conversation hit a lull, it was not at all awkward. He turned the volume up on the radio and serenaded me again while the Ferrari burned the pavement.
One look at the speedometer and my stomach sank.
I’d never had an aversion to driving fast. In fact, I enjoyed the rush of it when Brando seemed to race against some unseen clock ticking inside of his mind, but after having children, throwing caution to the wind seemed irresponsible.
On the other hand, Luca was such a good driver that, after a second’s hesitation, the thought melted into the back of my mind, and we enjoyed the rest of our drive.
The florist shop was small but quaint looking. Luca had already opened his door, stepped out, and started to make his way to my side when I felt it.
Something was off—I started to have a physical reaction to the place. Or not the place specifically, to someone inside of it.
My heart started to drum, my body becoming clammy, though I shivered. A burn in the pit of my stomach brought back terrible memories. Bloody memories. The smell of iron flooded my nostrils. I could taste it on my tongue.
Only feeling the warmth Luca’s hand provided me, I couldn’t seem to focus on anything else. Not even the words coming rapidly from his mouth.
“No!” I finally got out. “No!”
I yanked Luca back right as three men exploded from the store, guns drawn. Nemours was with them, speaking too rapidly—French or English—or did he know Italian? He wanted me, that much was crystal clear. He wanted Luca to hand me over.
The look on Nemours’s face paled, though, when he realized that Luca was not the man he’d expected—Brando.
Whoever had called and given them a name for the flowers probably had used Brando’s instead of Luca’s. Nemours came on the off chance that Brando himself would be picking them up.
The one bright spot in all of this madness came from Luca himself. I didn’t feel any fear coming from him. If anything, the man was amused at this show of bravery, but not impressed.
Luca answered the demand.
The words were lost on me, but not the tone. It was solid, unwavering, but calm. In my mind I imagined him answering with some version of—over my dead body will you takemydaughter.
A bubble of laughter drifted up my throat and exploded out of my mouth. The two gunmen beside Nemours glanced at each other, and their comical looks set me off.
My insanity seemed to help in our getaway.
While the men were occupied with watching me laugh to death, Luca had withdrawn his gun and hit the second man before I’d even realized the first had gone down.
One of the men had to be dead or playing possum. The other man had started to shoot from his place on the ground. Nemours took off, like the rat he was, but not before Luca hit him in the back. He didn’t go down. He kept running until he reached a car with tinted windows, and a few seconds later, the vehicle sped off, tires screeching and smoking.
Bullets were going wild, pinging against the Ferrari, whizzing past my ear, and breaking straight through the glass of the floral shop.
Luca shoved me into the car, and somehow sanity came whipping in when I realized that he’d been shot.
