Prologue
The Prayer
It was a cold night in Maranello, Italy. My blood ran too hot to ever feel a true chill, but perhaps because an empty chasm had been opened inside of me, the frigid weather felt as if it was touching my bones. It was as if the isolation was causing my skin to thin. I had felt the fading of my armor before, but not to this extent. The cavity had long been closed, but after it was torn open, I was drowning in longing that had collected over the years.
The scents of various perfumes in the night air, drifting from my skin, along with the taste of more than one woman on my tongue was a frigid reminder of who I was.
The grandson of Marzio Piero Fausti.
Son of Lucious Leone Fausti.
I am Rocco Piero Fausti.
The first grandson and son in line for the Fausti throne.
I was alone in this life, bred to be a ruler and not a follower. And although I had brothers, cousins, family who could understand this, we all had rooted places in our world, and that was where we stood. I trained my brothers to be soldiers, to follow me, listen to me, and if someday I ceased to exist, the next in line, Dario, would take my place, leaving Romeo to move up in line and continue our branch of the family tree.
Hierarchy ruled, and our laws were our laws. We acted and reacted accordingly, whether the situation was romantic or ruthless. We balanced on the edges of the swords we were taught how to battle with.
We were Faustis, and as Faustis, we did not question our roles in the family.
However.
On nights such as this one, when the cold pierced my skin and stabbed my bones, opening the hollow cavity inside of me filled with longing, two questions rose from the darkest depths.
Whom do I belong to? Who belongs to me?
I did not feel these were absurd questions or fantastical ones.
All my life I was taught to believe I belonged to the family. My grandfather. My father. I could understand that. I could accept it. However, a man such as I needed more than that.
I craved to love and be loved in return.
I hungered to have a relationship such as my grandparents had—Marzio and Grazia. I was not present to witness such love, but theirs was a love that echoed throughout the years.
So did the longing in my grandfather’s eyes and in his voice when he spoke of her. He rarely did. My grandfather’s sister, Lola, once told me that, after my grandmother passed, it was as if my grandfather held her memories close to his chest, refusing to allow them freedom to move about. Perhaps to him, if the air touched them, they would fade, and he could not stand the thought of it. He was the only soul powerful enough to keep her alive.
It was through other’s memories that I felt a true sense of awe at what they had shared. From all accounts, my grandparents had had a legendary love.
And what my father shared with the woman in Louisiana stuck in my heart as well. I did not know the woman. Nor did I know anything about the love my father shared with her. However, even though my mind could be cold and practical, my romantic heart was hot and reckless. Without my father having to tell me, my heart knew. What my father shared with the woman inLouisiana was worth his life. For which he would be spending a great deal of it locked behind bars.
This was what I asked for.
All I asked for.
One woman’s heart.
One man’s heart.
What existed between the two hearts only for the two of them.
This seemed to be a problem for me. Multiple women came at me at once, and my body proudly served, even if my heart did not.
In each of these stranger’s faces, I longed to finally be home. In each of their eyes, I searched for a connection that could make me move without a finger touching me. Perhaps I would not even know my feet were moving until she stopped moving. The lion inside of my heart hungered to recognize his mate and react to her. And even though I had a lifetime ahead of me, the craving felt urgent to fulfill.
Perhaps because a wedding arrangement would be made soon.
Especially after what had happened with Romilda.
