“You are here for a reason,” I said, cutting to the heart of her appearance.
She nodded. “Your precious package. I have found the mystery woman who took it.” She gave me the address, then nodded. “The farmhouse that belonged to the Angeli family. Grazia’s brother decided to sell. I spent time with the woman who bought it. Remnants of your package were left on the kitchen counter. I had stopped to see Grazia’s brother before I came here.”
My eyes narrowed, and I almost asked her to sing the words to me. It was as if she was telling the truth, but a version of it. I was not told that the house had sold, and the woman using my name infuriated me. Perhaps she was using it because she wanted the honor the name brought along with it. Her husband as well. The name Fausti could open doors that hands could not.
I turned to go, and Rosaria said to my back, “Go easy on her, lover! She is a tiny, spinning doll.” Then she started to laugh, the sharp and empty sound of it echoing along the streets of love.
My Ferrari left a dust storm in its wake as I raced uphill toward the Angeli Farmhouse. It was a spectacular piece of property, but I had my eye on a winery not far. It was a side passion of mine, and it made me breathe easier to think about spending time there. Rosaria wanted no part in the making of it, only in the drinking of it. It would be an endeavor I would go into solo.
My thing.
Most of my life was my thing.
I hit the brake at the top, coming to a smooth stop, if not abruptly. Dust floated in the air around me, and I stepped out without even bothering to slip on my jacket or smooth my hair. The sleeves of my button down were rolled up. A tree separated me from the farmhouse, but I could see the bottom portion of a woman, her skirt billowing out in the warm breeze.
“Signora! Signora!”I called, and then ranted in Italian about how it was not customary nor respectful to take packages that did not belong to you.
The body in the billowing skirt met me as I was going around the tree.
“Holy Mary,” she breathed out, stumbling back. Mere seconds later, she seemed to recover. “What are you doing here? How did you—h-how did you find me?”
Myhand came down with a slap against my thigh. “You keep stealing my goods, Signora!”
She took a step toward me, studying me, almost in a drunken stupor, or perhaps she was tired.
In that second, though, it seemed like the entire world stood still. Even her dress flowed instead of taking flight. If my anger would not have blinded me, and my mind would have made it past the racing of my heart, I would have recognized her right away. But she looked different from the last time I had seen her.
“Ah.” I smiled. “Your hair.” I made a motion around my neck, referring to how different it looked.
Her eyes stilled on the tattoo on my arm. The Fausti insignia. A rosary with a lion in its open center, a sacred heart in its mane. It began at my pulse point and ended in the middle of my forearm. It marked me as one of theirs.
“What about my hair?” she snapped.
I resisted the urge to lift my hands in surrender. “It was longer. The last time I saw you.”
“When did you see me?”
“Ah, yesterday. I saw you leave the store. I went to Mario to claim my special items, he pointed at the door and told me that the beautifulsignorathat had come with me last time took them.”
“How did you find me?”
“You answer to the name Fausti.Myname. Rosaria Caffi mentioned that a Fausti had purchased this villa. This beautiful signora with my last name was in the possession of my cheese and pears.” I looked down at her hand. “My Chianti also.”
“Oh.” She smiled. “Wehadthose.”
“This is no matter.” I waved off the offense. She could carve my heart out, and my knees would drop at her feet.
Our eyes locked and a tender breeze moved between us.
Her hair was a dark auburn that reminded me of fall. When the sun filtered through the trees, it touched the strands and sparked. Her skin was as pale as snow. Her eyes, as green as jealousy, were feline shaped, fierce, so cat-like for thisdelicate creature. She had a ballerina’s build, but I could see how soft with curves she would become if she ever stopped the dance.
She was perfect.
An angel sent straight from heaven to my door.
The night in the witch’s tower came back to me. The scarf dancing delicately in the rough hand of the chilled winds.
“Your name?” she asked, her voice as sweet as candy.
