He moved out of my touch, almost repulsed by it. “You wouldn’t,” he said with an American accent.
Shame that. Italian from that mouth would be so…pleasurable to the ears.
My fingers were clicking inside of my mind again. I had pieced together the puzzle before, but I wanted confirmation on where he fit. Then I would have to decide who to tell about this. Luca needed to know another of his bastard sons was out in thewild—especially one that had never bothered to use the name before.
In America, it was worth something, but in Europe, especially in Italy, the name elicited fear and sighs.
“No, perhaps not,” I said slowly, rolling my tongue. “Lucious è stato impegnato.”
A grin came to his face before he translated my words.Luciouswasbusy once upon a time.
At the look on his face, my thighs ached, and I sucked in a breath, the pleasurable feeling tingling my asshole when I thought about what this man could do to me, and the language he could speak to me while he did so.
I nodded once, grinning at him, at what came across as mischievously.
I wanted him.
My cold blood burned for him.
It would not be possible, though, I could tell by the way he would not hold eye contact and was repulsed by my touch. I did not take it personally. The little ballerina had earned that right.
Her green eyes burned from across the room in jealousy, and after watching and trembling in anger, she almost floated across the room.
I should have known then I was in trouble.
A photographer held his camera up and took a picture of Brando and me. I was prepared for it, but he was not. He was too busy watching the little ballerina float.
“Monsieur Fausti, merci beaucoup,” the photographer said politely. “I will be sure to mention that you are here with Rosaria Caffi.”
“I’m here with Scarlett,” Brando corrected him.
The photographer looked between the little ballerina and this gorgeous species of a beast, trying to understand. The photographer had every right to. I fit with these men. The little ballerina did not. She was a fucking play toy, something that belonged spinning inside of a music box to childish music.
“The ballerina?” The photographer’s face scrunched up in confusion. “I thought she was here with Monsieur Nemours?”
This was where I truly became invested, enthralled, sucked in. Brando Fausti’s response would answer all my questions, even if he had no idea I had them.
Brando and the little ballerina stared at each other.
“I am not here with Monsieur Nemours, as I had mentioned earlier,” the ballerina said to Brando while he gazed at her with pathetic stars in his eyes. Her French accent was impeccable, and I wondered if Olivier had lied to me about her being from America.
It did not matter where she came from. I did not understand this! This…toy was half my size, and it was as if she had this magnificent animal on a leash!
Why?
My heart stomped again and perhaps so did my heel on the ancient marble.
The crowd hushed until Nemours walked over and clapped a hand on Nigel’s shoulder. “I hear there is an elite here.” He laughed, but knowing Olivier, it was almost mocking. “Fausti.”
“No one more elite than you, Nemours.” Nigel gave him a playful jab in the ribs.
It was hard to not to look at Brando Fausti. His face underwent a spectacular change when Olivier got too close to the plaything. It was murderous.
The toy took a step closer to Brando, feeling the tension, keeping the leash on the Fausti.
“Ah, I suppose.” Nemours sighed and looked Brando in the eye. “Word travels quickly. I did not realize I was in the presence of one related to such greats. Tell us, Fausti, which one of the greats should we thank for your presence here tonight?”
“Luca Fausti,” the toy answered, her voice stronger than her bones it seemed, and filled to the brim with pride at Luca’s name. Or it seemed that way. “You might know him as Lucious.”
