It fucking was. Any man who attempted to touch mine would no longer be a man. He’d be fucking worm food.
“You know,” Scarlett said, watching us. “I’ve heard it said that kids have holes in their souls in the shapes of their dads. You’re giving them something solid to fill that hole, Brando. You’re a wonderful father.”
I leaned over Mia’s head and kissed my wife, trying not to get slapped with the wide brim of the hat she wore.
Mia mimicked me, puckering her lips, wanting a kiss from her mamma too.
“Muah!” Mia and Scarlett made the noise at the same time. The two of them laughed.
Matteo made a cat-like noise, and since he was becoming more interactive, Mia found him more intriguing. She made a few faces at him, but the flotilla of vaporetto’s that flanked us on either side along the Grand Canal fascinated her even more.
Fausti men surrounded us in water taxis for safety, but also to keep the photographers with long-lensed cameras at a distance.
Ruby’s chest rumbled with a growl when her eyes took in one in particular who had a camera attached to his face. I patted her head, giving her the order to stand down.
It was a shock to me that anyone would want a picture of us simply because we were Faustis.
It was different for Scarlett, given who she was, and all of the notable names she was linked to, but this event had been planned on a much larger scale than anything I was used to on my side.
Scarlett’s mother was going to be in attendance, and in her own right, she was famous. She was a designer, and her clothes were seen on wives of presidents and stars. Her name was on the milder side, considering all the Italian “royalty” who seemed to be invited, along with well-known names from all over the world.
To put it mildly, the Faustis were connected and known for the lavish parties they threw—all in the name of charity.
The last time an event of this magnitude took place was right after Grazia and Marzio’s wedding, when Marzio’s father had handed over the empire to him. It was known throughout the family that this wasn’t just a charitable gala, but also the passing of the torch to the son who would take over.
Marzio had planned on this event being held in Luca’s honor, but after Luca was sentenced and Marzio died, this tradition was all but forgotten.
Luca hadn’t forgotten.
Even if Lothario hadn’t, he made no move to make his takeover public. No one would have been there to be proud of his accomplishment—he had no sponsor because he’d won by default.
Despite the grandness of this celebration, there was an undercurrent of danger, of a challenge. Even though Luca had all but taken from Lothario what he claimed was rightly his, Lothario held on.
Scarlett’s laughter made me turn. I almost laughed too.
Romeo, who had urged Juliette to stand on their own boat, had started to wave to the paparazzi. She threw her hand onto the silk scarf tied around her head to keep it from flying when she waved with him. His hair was slicked back, his Italian custom suit shone navy in the sun, and his sunglasses were straight from a James Dean collection.
“God!” Scarlett said, the sound of her voice almost lost among the hum of the boats. “He was born for this.”
“Zio prosciutto!” Mia said happily, using her hands to gesture to him.
We laughed even harder—she’d called him uncle ham, a term she no doubt copied from Juliette.
Scarlett corrected her, though, and gave her the correct term. Mia tasted the words, shook her head in a decisive sort of way, and kept chanting,zio prosciutto!
Rocco was a boat behind, and he was shaking his head, watching Romeo. One of the paparazzi spotted Rosaria, a crimson hat on her head, and started to scream her name. She gave a subtle wave, her eyes hidden behind sunglasses.
I knew it was only a matter of time—seconds.
The three of us turned at the sound of Scarlett’s name. She groaned but had the grace to smile and wave. She’d never enjoyed the spotlight, but by the same token, she enjoyed preforming in front of crowds. Once she left the stage, though, she was done with the limelight. Dancing was never about that for her; it was about sharing her art in motion with the audience.
“Why dat man callin’ Mamma’s name?” Mia asked, her brows drawn down, eyes narrowed. “Dat’smyMamma.”
“No,” I said, teasing her. “She’smymamma.”
“No!” she shot back, holding on to Scarlett’s arm. “Mine!”
I laughed. “You’re right. She’s ours.”
