I was a man who did not lie—it went against my honor. Rosaria Caffi seemed to find a place deep inside of her that spoke her truth, ruthlessly, but with an angel’s voice box. Above her beauty, her upbringing, anything of earthly merit, the simple truth in her voice was what had commanded me to her from the start of her moving performance and sealed our fate at the end of it.
My father had sent me her name with a note as simple as the truth in her voice:open your heart, son, to her voice, and report back to me if you can hear a lie.
I could not.
Her passion.
Romance.
Resilience.
Strength.
It all resided there.
A vulnerable part of me ached to reside there with them.
At the mere thought, a trembling inside of me started to calm. Ever since I was a young man, before I could even remember, there had always been something inside of me that quivered, like a metal sword that had impaled something too strong for its iron.
My brothers, Dario and Romeo, who were born in that order, the three of us exactly ten months apart, came to stand behind me. In our family, hierarchy was law. I would rule our entire family someday, but my brothers were mine to manage since I was the oldest. Especially since Papà had been imprisoned in America years ago.Nonno, who led ourfamiglia, taught me the basics of who I was, what was expected of me, but it was expected that I teach my brothers. Bring them up in our ways and in our blood.
Dario was intelligent and focused on his work. Romeo…I sighed. He was a flirt and always had too much mischief playing in his grin. He enjoyed his hair too much for his own good, and if there was a woman in sight, his heart would go straight to his eyes. Which was why, when Abree Coffi, Rosaria’s songbird sister, passed us, and Dario acknowledged her, I felt a spark between them and considered Abree for a bride for my brother.
An arrangement for marriage in the Fausti world was more common than not. Love was encouraged, but not required. We either fell right away, or over time. But our family was known to align itself with the most well-known names in Italy. Rosaria’s family was known for the songbirds they produced in the opera world. Both of Rosaria’s parents were deeply embedded in that scene and were known the world over, as was the Caffi legacy.
Even my Nonna, Grazia Angeli, was famous in Italy before she wed my grandfather, Marzio. Grazia was one of Italia’s most famous faces—an actress—and the heiress to a luxury car brand.
Apart from the truth in Rosaria’s voice, I knew the Caffi name was a reason whyPapà had suggested our match.There were other women. Another heiress to a car fortune. Another actress. An artist who claimed she was related to one of the most famous artists in Italy’s history. Political leader’s granddaughters. Countesses’ daughters and granddaughters. I knew them all from being in the same circles over the years, but I could not find anything true between the rest of the women and me but physical attraction.
My skin was satisfied with surface adoration. My passionate heart was not.
If my heart was a lion, I longed for it to wake up and roar for its true mate. It was a roar that was known in our family to create legendary loves between a man and his woman. It meant that she inspired her man to be a man—ruthless in her honor and romantic in her honor.
Dario took a few steps toward Abree and started a conversation with her. Romeo winked at me, and I narrowed my eyes at him. He lifted his hands in a way that said,I will behave, brother, but his eyes filled in the rest of his truth.Unless a woman is involved. He wiggled his thick eyebrows at me.
Was that not the truth for all of us? This was why I gave my younger brother more freedom when it came to his affairs. Romeo, even though refusing to settle with one woman, had fiery passion running through his veins. I could respect that, if it made Romeo…Romeo, and it did not cause disrespect to ourfamiglia. Romeo was his name and had become his personality, but he could also be ruthless when the mood struck. Romeo was a Fausti—through and through.
The door opened to Rosaria’s dressing room. Thunderous applause from the small crowd surrounding it seemed to echo through the ancient hall, but the moment our eyes met, the noise faded into the background.
We were acknowledging the attraction, establishing a connection, but before the feeling could fully take hold, she bowed to the applause, allowing the outside world to sever it. Perhaps I knewthen that, over romance, Rosaria would always err on the side of applause, of fame, of power and control.
Perhaps I knew this but was still dazed by the sound of the truth in her voice.
This was who the woman was to the outside world.
I demanded to go deeper.
Find her truth and build a home there.
When she rose, and her shimmering eyes met mine again, she stepped back and invited me inside her private space. The room was filled with flowers and gifts. Before she could offer me a seat, I bowed to her, taking her hand, placing a warm, chaste kiss on her knuckles.
“SignorinaCaffi,” I whispered in Italian, lifting my eyes to meet hers. “It has been the greatest honor to hear you sing in person.”
“As it should be.”
We both grinned at the same time.
I kept her hand in mine as I led her to the seat in front of her mirror. Feminine items were spread out on it—makeup, perfume, styling products for the hair—and the sight of it gave me a pang of longing in the center of my chest. I wanted her feminine things in my home. I wanted them to be spread across my counters, and the spicy scent of her to linger even after she left. I wanted her before the sun rose, before it set, to stand out on the Giulietta balcony of our home in Maranello and be surrounded by tender light as she serenaded me with her truth.
