I knew part of her appeal had to do with Luca Fausti. He had bedded her years ago, popped her virgin cherry, and she had been lusting after him ever since. Monica had popped Rocco’s, er, cherry, and the three of them were caught up in a ghost storm of bedsheets together. Meaning, Monica was still in love with Luca and Rocco was a warm placeholder for him. Rocco could be a passionate sap at times, and I did not see her appeal, but…whatever he wanted, as long as she did not turn him into a sappy mush with her caring nature.
She was not all that caring when she cursed at me as I walked down the aisle toward Rocco. And it was not because she wanted him for marriage, or a long-term relationship. Shecaredfor him as Luca hadcaredfor her.
I stopped walking for a moment and considered that.
Caring about him.
I cared about him, as well, but in a different way.
I cared enough to see him rise to his place as the head of the Faustifamiglia.
I did not care enough about the women he desired—that was only flesh, and flesh was not something to be concerned about. Unless he started to fall in love.
Then I would have a problem.
If he fell in love, it would only mean that I would be ousted. I had the capability to love, but it would never be the love he seemed to crave. He did his duty as my husband when I invited those people into our bedroom, but I could tell he was not really into it. It was a job to him, using that humungous, beautiful cock for the good of the feminine world.
My friend, the one he would only call my friend, asked after our tryst if he would not mind making a mold of it for her to have.
I rolled my eyes and laughed at the thought.
If I did not think he would mind, perhaps I would ask him if we could do that and hand them out as presents.
Rocco did not want a harem, though, and my body did. I did not want to get attached to him. What we had was an arrangement, nothing more, nothing less. If his job was to pleasure me, in any way I craved, my job was to sit next to him on the Fausti throne, my cape made of animal skin and my crown the sharp dagger that had put the coat around my shoulders.
Most women, after meeting Rocco, could not understand this. How I could be so cold. Cruel, some would even say, but what I said in return is this: fuck off, as they say in America. Rocco was born to lead, and if I became soft, especially in the bedroom, he would turn so romantic, there would be no turning him hard again. If he went soft on me, my desire would go limp.
I could not be both women, anyway. I was born a certain way, and that was that.
And I needed that hard cock.
I needed to watch him with other women, so we could fight over who got to taste him next. He was a virile man and could probably fuck five women at once and not tire.
I sucked in a breath at the thought of that, and a gulp of the perfumed air went down the wrong way in this Frenchchâteauthat was overly decorated to showcase its riches and the family who owned it.
The Nemours.
The Nemours were as powerful in France as the Faustis in Italy. However, the Fausti family inched them out when it came to being world renowned for their ruthlessness. This is why the Faustis held charitable events, especially the one in Venice, where one king handed over power to the next, so that the world would see them as something other than ruthless.
The Faustis had a romantic streak that no other crime family could claim they had either. The romantic streak was not because their hearts pumped for it. Perhaps to a certain extent they did, for the women they cared for. But the romantic streak was a challenge to the ruthlessness in their blood.
Could they balance both?
Of course, this was the powerful Fausti family, and if the man could not be both, he was not truly considered a man in the eyes of the family.
Same with an all-romantic man.
One had to balance out the other. A man had to know when to switch one off and turn on the other. The romance had to be turned on while the ruthless blood had to be contained in the veins. And if a little of that coldness slipped out during sex?
I shivered.
I craved ruthless, and I could not balance it.
I was thankful not to be a man in that family but the wife of its next king.
Ahh. All the history books would showcase the name Rosaria Caffi in bold, not something as flimsy as italics, the ink as embedded on the page as a mark is on the soul. Eternal. Therewould be stories of me. Just as there were stories of Grazia Angeli and the women who came before her.
What was I doing thinking about this again?
