I took her hand in mine, cold like Scarlett’s usually was, and then leaned in as the music drifted into another beat. “You don’t need to worry about me,” I whispered in her ear, and then kissed her cheek. “I’ll be fine.”
* * *
No one knew Luca Fausti better than his wife, but even a simpleton could understand his kind. Or maybe I took advantage of the fact that it was easy for me to understand a man like him.
We shared the same blood, the same sins. The craving to seize and conquer, to gain at all costs, was strong, but at this point in my life, I had complete control over everything that mattered to me.
A warrior only fights when he’s amid war.
After it’s over and done, when he goes home to his family, he kisses his wife, touches her with a tender hand, the same hand that picks up his children and tucks them into bed.
Perhaps Luca couldn’t any longer. Perhaps time behind iron bars had taken its toll. Perhaps the crave had grown into a beast the man in him had to back down from, even though looking from the outside in, Luca Fausti controlled the weather.
From my spot looking on, I took another whiskey from a server, keeping an eye on my wife. She and Mitch were still at it, both laughing as they enjoyed themselves.
Maggie Beautiful’s words seemed to whirl inside of my mind, mixing with the many conversations I’d had with Scarlett over the same issue, all of them sticking together.
I knocked back the rest of the drink, and a silver platter seemed to appear out of thin air, waiting to take my discarded drink and replace it with another full glass.
Keep ’em fucking coming, I wanted to say, but didn’t. The words weren’t necessary. They would keep coming as long as my hand kept grabbing for another.
Scarlett stopped moving for a second, giving me a pointed look.
It could have been because Lothario stood next to me, grabbing for his own whiskey, but it wasn’t. It was clear she worried about the drinks and how fast they were disappearing.
“Walk away,” I said to Lothario in Italian before the glass made it to my lips, where it stilled. “Shake his hand, congratulate him, kiss his cheeks. Make it clear that the exchange of power is clear.” Tipping the glass toward my lips, I opened my mouth and drank, the burn loosening the tightness in my chest.
We stood side by side, both of us staring out at the dance floor, but we might as well have been standing toe to toe. An intensity flowed from his body to mine, mine to his. This simple conversation had the power to alter lives—his or mine, only fate knew.
“This is mine,” he responded in the same language, taking a drink of his whiskey. “It is mine, by right.”
I said nothing, refusing to argue the point.
Technically, it could have been, and was—or had been.
Marzio had been sure in his decision to appoint Luca the ruler of the kingdom before he died, even though he had brought it up with me. With Luca in jail, Marzio was looking for someone else to take the position, even though by right it was still Luca’s since he was Marzio’s first-born, but the family needed someone to rule in his place until Luca was freed. Another man could be appointed in his place, as Lothario was, but it was only an acting position. It was by default.
Even Ettore had understood that if he had inherited the right (or the burden) when Luca was released, no matter how old, the right (or the burden) was Luca’s by family law.
Unless Luca died. Then it became Ettore’s, or any of the brothers who decided to challenge him for it.
My brothers and I had the right to challenge the hierarchy of power if we chose to, too, but by law, Rocco would have had to ask my permission first since I was the oldest, or challenge me himself.
This was why Lothario had wanted me dead. He feared me. Just as much as he feared his older brother.
Before Marzio died, he’d put the offer on the table—did I want to take my father’s position if something were to happen to him?
“No,” I’d said without much thought.
Marzio refused to budge, though, giving me orders to think it over. Though Marzio’s orders never came out demanding, he left little doubt of his intentions.
A smart man always did well to remember that words were just words—it was the feeling behind them that mattered.
None of my uncles were with us during this conversation. It had been my grandfather, me, and one other man, the old man, Tito. My uncles had all known, though, and with Scarlett’s influence on Marzio—he had fallen in love with her—it became clear that our sudden presence in their lives was disrupting the line of things.
I’d agreed with the sentiment and wanted no part in it.
There are times in a man’s life when his choices are limited to A or B, and A is all in, while B is the lesser of two evils.
