Mitch seemed to be holding onto the issue with two hands, refusing to let go. He blamed Brando. I could feel it. I honestly thought it had something to do with Peter looking up to Brando, but I chose to stay silent on the matter. But something had happened between them the day Nemours came back. When Brando had met him at the garage.
With all that had happened since, the issue had been put on the back burner, but during times like these, when Mitch rolled his eyes at something one of the Faustis did or made a snide remark abouttheir way of things, it brought the issue to the forefront.
Especially since he seemed to forget that when he made the comments, he essentially made them about my children. Fausti blood ran through their veins.
The thought stayed with me even after we arrived home, and Mitch and Ace started an impromptu music session. It was almost impossible to deny, but Ace had a voice you’d hear on the radio. He sounded rustic. Even Mitch took the backseat to his lead and decided to play guitar instead of joining in on vocals.
However, my cheeks flamed when Ace pointed to me and then started to sing a song too personal for one stranger to dedicate to another.
My children looked up at me, then at him, and all three of them narrowed their eyes. Even Marciano.
It was pissing me off that Mitch kept inviting Ace—all of them, actually—knowing how Brando would feel having people he didn’t know close to his family. When I’d say things, he’d reply with, “Guido is here. That’s enough.”
I hauled my kids to their rooms for baths, and they fell asleep in my bed while we watched more fun summertime movies. Too tired to even change yet, I still had on the dress, sans shoes.
Putting my hair up in a messy bun on top of my head, I decided to make a glass of tea before bed, settle in next to the panoramic views, and finally,hopefully, get into the romance novel I had brought along.
“You’d think I’d be craving romance,” I muttered to myself, forgetting that one of the men was close enough to hear. It didn’t matter. For the most part, they ignored me unless I had something direct to say. All part of their job.
The party still raged downstairs. The floor beneath my bare feet was cool, and I padded almost silently to the kitchen, rooting around in the cabinets for all the paraphernalia to make a spiced Chai-tea latte.
Whoever had come in had left the kitchen spotless and stocked with all that I needed. I didn’t need a cup,no, I craved it. After completing the prefatory steps, I lit the gas stove and waited for the water to boil.
Music and chatter, most of it coming from outside where the guests had started a fire in the pit, infiltrated the walls of the kitchen.
The music was rather nice. It was the kind of music that made a person want to curl up with a blanket by the fireplace while staring out at the lake as the sun starts to melt into the horizon. Or perhaps gazing up at the stars.
The song being sung was the one Ace had been singing before—this time Mitch was singing it. Maybe to Violet. Humming at first, I caught the gist of it, then started to sing along myself, but really low.
The sweet, fermented smell of hops met me before he did. Ace came into the kitchen and started to sing with me.
Not expecting him, I jumped, and then flung the teabag at him, hitting him in the face.
“Sorry, darlin’,” he drawled. “Didn’t mean to scare the beautiful off you.”
It took me a moment to compose myself, my chest heaving with the frantic beat of my heart. I looked past him but saw no one. Where was Guido? Any of the other men? I didn’t feel anything sinister coming from him, so I relaxed, but only marginally. He was drunk. Or close enough to it that he probably thought he floated in here on blissful clouds.
His cologne was strong, mixing in with the scent.
He grinned at me, and I realized I had been staring at him, gaging the distance between us. He bent down and picked up the teabag, offering it to me. Shaking my head, I pointed to the trash, then took another out of the box.
“Scare the beautiful off of me?” I asked, keeping my voice controlled. “What does that mean?”
Instead of throwing the bag away, he twirled it. “Oh, it just means that when I scared you, angry took over, instead of your usual beautiful.”
“Never heard that one before,” I said, pouring the hot water in my cup. The scent of cinnamon, cardamon, anise, cloves, pepper, and ginger wafted up, aromatic in the air.
He shrugged, then rested his back against the counter. “Just something my old grandaddy used to say.”
“Clever,” I muttered.
He laughed. “He thought so, but most men do, and are out to prove it.”
I stirred the contents of the cup around. “It’s been my experience that a man who has something to prove is not usually whatever it is he is out to prove. Last I checked, a lion doesn’t go around having to prove that he’s a lion. He roars because it’s his nature, not because he’s out to prove that it means something.”
“How often do you spend time with lions?” he said.
“Too often.”
