Tito had advised me to take it, had even approached Scarlett on the subject, but I refused to budge. Scarlett had felt that if I jumped in the deep end, we would be swimming against the current for the rest of our lives.
Short term? The power would have been mine.
Long term? I would’ve been standing on that stage, shaking Luca’s hand, giving over the power.
I would have never been able to recover from that.
Not because of pride, or from wanting it. No, because there was still a glimmer in the darkness—Luca might free us from the responsibilities of this life.
Marzio had, and his son, my father, had to take that seriously, or his father’s life would have been lost in vain.
To his credit, Lothario stood with solid knees, determined to see this through. I got the feeling he was done with being second best to Luca.
He was a man with something to prove, which meant he had everything to lose, but nothing more than what it meant to be a man to him. Scarlett had told me his wife was a driving force, stoking the fire. Her craving for the burn came close to his.
I often thought both reasons were one in the same.
“I am giving you the chance to turn,” he said, putting his glass down on another platter. He didn’t pick up another. He stood straighter, fixing his suit. “It will not be tonight, but soon. This—” he waved a hand around “—is still mine.”
“Giving me the chance to turn.” I almost barked out a laugh. “If I do? What will I get in return for my loyalty to you, Uncle? A knife in the back when I turn to do your bidding?”
“It was not personal,” he said, not an ounce of remorse in his voice.
“Ah, but it is. The only reason you stand on two legs today, Uncle, is because my wife does.”
He knew. The only reason he went on breathing was because my wife came out of the ordeal unharmed. If something were to have happened to her, or if she had even gotten a scar from what he put us through, I would have challenged him for the kingdom.
I would have won.
Lothario said something else, something I didn’t even bother catching.
A man had come up behind Scarlett, tapping her on the shoulder. She looked surprised to see him, even more surprised when he leaned down and hugged her, and then she turned to Mitch and introduced the two men. They shook hands.
The man was about my height, towering over my wife, dark hair, fair skin, light eyes.
“Look in the mirror before you make another move,” I said to Lothario before setting my empty glass down on the platter. “If you find yourself lacking, better to walk away and see another day.”
Leaving him in the shadows, I made my way through the crowd, maneuvering around flailing arms and twirling bodies.
Closer, I could hear the man talking. He had an accent, German, but not strong. I recognized the use ofze.
Before I made it to her, his eyes narrowed, before turning back to her, then to me again, and then to her.
I placed my hand on the small of her back, and he stopped whatever he was saying, giving her the chance to introduce us.
“Oh, Brando, this is, ah, this is Rainer Winter. Rainier, this is my husband, Brando Fausti.”
Mitch slapped me on the shoulder, shaking his head, a smirk on his face, while he excused himself in a British accent to get something to drink.
Rainer held out his hand, and we shook. He didn’t hold back, and neither did I. Which told me quite a bit about this unexpected visitor. Another one of my wife’s admirers. Poor bastard. I saw the light in his eyes die when she introduced me as her husband.
“Tell me, how did you two meet,” I said.
Scarlett opened her mouth to respond, but Rainier beat her to it. “My sister is a ballerina. Brigitte,” he said with a French accent. “We met through her.”
Scarlett coughed, turning to see if there was a server in sight—negative. She was forced to turn back toward us.
“Ah,” I breathed out. “Scarlett spent the day with you in the French countryside.”
