Wherever he was going, or was about to do, he felt better doing it dressed. He didn’t put on a shirt, though.
The palazzo stayed true to its old bones but had been updated with modern amenities, and the rooms came equipped with sound systems.
Brando stood with his back to me while he fiddled with our little portable music player, which he had hooked up to the system at some point. He’d been dancing with Mia earlier.
For some reason, this thought made me start up again.
Using the heels of my hands, I tried to wipe away the flood, concentrating on my breathing, but I couldn’t seem to stop. My face felt hot, the rest of me chilled to the bone.
Brando sighed, deep and long, and then turned around as the music started to play. Like a girl whose beast was attempting to make her happy by doing something completely outlandish, I stared, mouth open.
The theme song to Karate Kid, “Glory of Love,” played—what was it with men and that movie?—and my husband stood in front of me, his mouth lip-syncing the lyrics, his hands signing them.
His muscles worked as he translated the song into the language of my brother, the veins in his arms pronounced underneath his skin.
Somewhat collecting myself, I wiped my eyes, sitting up taller in the bed.
A smile came to my face when his face transformed into a mask of intense concentration, his head bobbing to the rhythm of the music.
Sign language is a beautiful language, and Brando knew how to move his hands in time to the music. Being Italian had more than one perk.
I suspected he and Elliott might have done this a time or two for fun. I had done it once, in honor of my brother, for a cause in his honor. The video had been recorded and shared—it had gone viral.
This made the tears fall harder, thinking of how special Elliott had been, but the smile lingered on my face.My hands had come to my heart without thought, almost unable to hold inside the love and grief, paradoxically existing together in the same space.
There was a reason my husband had chosen this song.
Brando knew how much I loved romance books, especially historical ones, where the man swept the woman off her feet, her honor his to defend. This song represented that time. In many ways, the Fausti men, even with all their rough edges, still carried the torch of those men.
When they fell, they fell hard, giving all of themselves.
Case in point, the beast of a man in front of me, who had been stripped of one of those titles. He was only a man with a beating heart, blood pulsing through his veins, trying to make his emotional wife smile.
He scooped me out of the bed and I let out an unsolicitedwoop!, then wrapped my legs around him, clinging like the monkey he sometimes called me.
“Feel better, Ballerina Girl?”
“Yes,” I said, touching my nose against his. “Now take me to your castle, beast. Have your wicked way with me.”
He laughed, his breath washing over my lips. “Tell me you’ll settle for a bed in someone else’s castle.”
“As long as you’re in it.” Then I started to laugh when another song started to play. It was so unlike him. “When did you get all this music? This isn’t exactly the kind of music to get the heart pumping, the anger flowing. This issooo…romantico.”
He glared at me before he dropped me on the bed. I bounced, laughing even harder. I felt like I was on an emotional roller coaster ride. I couldn’t seem to get a handle on my emotions.
“I’m keeping the mystery alive, baby,” he said. “You can’t know all my secrets, or there is no intrigue, ah?”
My eyes met his, and I didn’t say anything for a moment or two.
“Tell me,” he whispered.
Even though he whispered, his voice could never truly be considered soft. It was deep, with some gravel, even when it was kept low for the sake of the mood.
“Grazie, mio marito.”
After a second, he nodded. He glanced outside at the impenetrable darkness and then at me.
“What are you thinking?” I whispered.
