The Fausti men revered women, but they also wouldn’t hesitate to take one out that threatened their pride. Edna once told me that back in the day, a woman tried to kill one of their wives, and that woman was found slumped over her dinner plate. She’d been poisoned.
It was rumored that the Fausti husband had lifted the dead woman by the hair, admiring her face, which was going as cold as the soup. “Such a waste,” he’d said in Italian, and then let her hair go carelessly, reinforcing his words.
I watched as a server walked by with drinks and decided to pass for a bit. I hoped they were not going to accuse of me of beingthatwoman. A waste if they even thought I was out to touch Brando Fausti’s wife.
What a fucking pickle I was in. But I’d been in them before. Maybe not to this level, but somehow, I felt all those times were preparing me for this one.
My confidence spiked with the thought, and the warmth of the room flowed over me as I took a step forward, deciding to make my way deeper into the party.
Bad timing.
My first step coincided with a body making its way through the same space.
We collided, and I almost went down.
A hand, a very large hand, grabbed me by the arm before I bit it. Our eyes connected, and it seemed like the world slowed around me, melting like slow-dripping wax, the colors of the night creating the oozing candle.
The man nodded at me, as if to say,you’re good, let me go, fixed his suit and continued forward with a coolness that made me shiver. He stopped for a second, his wife took his arm, and then they made their way deeper into the crowd together.
I couldn’t move.
His warmth had melted me, and his coolness had frozen me to the spot where I stood.
Lothario Fausti had just saved me from going down.
Lothario.
Fucking.
Fausti.
Son ofMarzio.
Brother ofLuca.
The man’s picture with his stats was laminated and saved in my drawer back in New York.
And he’d just touched me.
Burned me, more like.
His hands were hot, and the perfect balance between soft and rough, like he took care of them, but he wasn’t afraid to get them dirty.
I had to stop the excited scream from erupting from my throat. I felt like one of those young girls at a concert, acting a fool after their dreamboat touched them, swearing to never wash their skin in that spot ever again.
Lothario’s small touch set me ablaze, and the blood rushed through my veins. I looked around with what I knew was a fucking giddy look on my face. All the doubt faded, and I claimed the moment for mine.
I claimed the entire night.
This was the highest point of the mountain I’d been climbing, and even though I had some issues to deal with, I was where I’d always dreamed to be. I stood taller, straightened my back, and lifted my chin. I surged forward with the crowd, grabbing a glass of champagne from a passing server.
The first half of this charity event/secret coronation was probably going to be aimed at giving the crowd a chance to take in thewowfactor of the event.
Like I would be observing for the column, I took everything in, too, from general mood to the music.
I listened to the chatter. A lot of it was foreign, but from what I could tell, my first instinct was right. They were still taking in the magnificence of the night. Therewas a sense of magic in the air, especially with the full moon shimmering over the city like melted silver. And that wasn’t factoring in the historic significance. The last time the Fausti family switched power was when Marzio had been crowned.
I wasn’t much for taking pictures in my personal life, but I wished Milo Furaha, a photojournalist at Vice City, was with me. We covered a lot of ground in New York together, and his photos won awards in the city and beyond.
