Again, he was Rocco Fausti—he could fuck a group of women while putting on a porno show for some lame sap who could not last ten seconds—and one woman would not work. He had needs asgreat as eating, and how could one woman equal to a feast? It was impossible, no matter what his foolish heart had convinced him of. I knew better. And it did not matter to me.
If he fell in love…
That might be a problem.
And I could not deny the pang in my heart when I thought of it. It was not truly a pain, but more of a hard foot stomp when I did not get my way.
I was not sure why, but it was not the time to reflect on it.
However, physical and beyond seemed to matter to the young ballerina who watched her man dance with the old ballerina. I could see it in her eyes. A fierce hurt and a fierce pride in the man.
She was hopelessly in love with him, two tears sliding down her cheeks as she watched the dance with starved eyes.
When I caught the way Brando’s eyes had taken her in, I would say that the feeling was mutual.
But what did sex have to do with love?
Niente.
After the dance was over, and the crowd applauded them, a group formed around the man.
A Frenchwoman, Nicolette, who would be included in the private party later, asked for the man’s name.
“Brando Fausti,” he answered, but it was clear to see he did not speak a word of French, and the woman spoke little English. He had a deep voice, an echo of my husband’s, and the deep bass of it seemed to rumble in his chest. I was willing to wager my crown that when he laughed, if he laughed, it would be raspy.
“Fausti?” Nicolette repeated.
Brando nodded in answer.
The Frenchwoman called to Nigel, an Englishman who was heir to a thoroughbred dynasty. While Nicolette introduced them, Nigel’s eyes searched his face until they registered absolute shock.
“Dear boy,” Nigel said, his voice lax after too much drink, “do tell me, are you blood of one of Italy’s most elite families? The legendary Fausti family? If you say it isn’t so, my eyes do fail me.”
Brando eyes went back and forth between Nicolette and Nigel. He was not uncomfortable, but perhaps preparing to speak the truth in public, which perhaps he knew might cause an effect he did not want in motion.
“You are the spitting image of Marzio.” Nigel rocked back on his heels, seemingly pleased that he had connected Brando to the Faustis, though Brando had not answered him yet.
My breath was bated as chatter began around us.
“Did you say he is a Fausti?”
“A Fausti?”
“How lovely!”
“Oui! He is the spitting image of Luca. Is he an uncle? What a splendid family! Do you drive as well?”
“Such an impressive Ferrari collection they have, indeed.”
“Marzio’s wife, Grazia, was related to the Machiavelli family of Florence and a gorgeous actress of her time. Splendid bloodline. They are Italy.”
“What doyoudo?”
Brando was content in allowing the crowd to gain in frenzy, since it allowed him to keep silent. But I would not allow this.
“Brando Fausti?” I almost purred, sliding my hand along his strong forearm. “I am Rosaria Caffi. I know your family well, but I do not know you.” And I refused to allow him to skate around the truth. I would pull the truth out of him, or someone else would try. And if he lied?
La mia parola è buona quanto il mio sangue.My word is as good as my blood.
