He stared at me.
“No layers,” I said, holding out my hand.
He removed his boxer briefs, throwing them toward the hamper. Then he took my hand and slid in beside me. His body was hot compared to my cold.
Moving in closer, sniffing him like he was air, I took comfort in his body being so close to mine. Nostalgia for years ago seemed to rush me at once, and I couldn’t help clinging to him like he might disappear, like those moments.
“I’m sorry, my baby,” he whispered in Italian. “I never wanted you to find out about—”
I kissed him to quiet him. “Your mess is mine. No matter how dirty. Just like mine is yours.”
He grinned, but he held me so close I couldn’t breathe. “Who says I want your mess?”
I laughed, hardly able to let it out from his hold around me. “Too late. You got it, whether you want it or not.”
He leaned in and kissed me. He kissed me until I saw stars.Then he said in Italian, “You’re all mine, messes and all. I’ve always wanted you, and I always will.”
“Bene,” I said, going in for another kiss, but he moved his head, not giving me access to his mouth.
“I never want to feel the way I did today again, Scarlett. Fucking paralyzed. Every time you walk out of our door, it always feels like a gamble I’m not willing to take. Tell me this is almost over. Tell me we’re almost free.”
Gazing into his eyes, I didn’t even want to lie. I could never lie to him. “I don’t think so, Brando. But we’re together, and together, we’ll go home.”
He said nothing for a minute or two, then nodded once. “Come. I need you closer.”
“You needed me that night too, didn’t you?” I kissed the hollow of his throat.
“Yeah, and you were there. Always the light in my darkness.”
“I’ll always burn for you.”
“Il mio,” he whispered.
“Sempre,” I whispered back.
44
Scarlett
Two weeks later.
If the tension had been a bowstring, it would have trembled and then exploded from the pressure.
We were a week away from the party in Venice, all the last-minute details being finalized, and after the attack on us, Luca was in no mood to be trifled with.
The crankiest king in the land seemed mild in comparison. Not only had Nemours shot him, but he’d wounded his pride.
None of the men made eye contact with him. His sons did his bidding without question, and the only two women brave enough to go near him were his wife and me.
Instead of making him resentful, the ordeal seemed to pull him closer to me. The situation had moved him into sharing Brando’s opinion about keeping me safe. I wasn’t sure if Brando appreciated this or resented it.
Perhaps a bit of both, depending on the day.
Nemours, as usual, seemed to have evaporated like smoke in fog, not a trace of him to be found.
The men left behind defied the idiomdead men tell no tales. Both had stories to tell. Both were Italian, and both belonged to the Faustifamiglia.Neither man had the tattoo, but they were dressed in custom-made Italian suits, which were traced back to the same family of tailorswho worked for the Faustifamiglia.
Putting the pieces of the puzzle together, the men seemed to conclude that either Nemours had approached Lothario and he had agreed to a blood deal, or Ercole was behind it.
