He released me a minute later.
I sighed in relief.
“Sing for me,” he said, his voice rough and calloused.
Rising from the bed, I stretched my arms over my head, his acceptance of me a balm to every ache, and went to the balcony. Stars floated above my head, but the wind, the wind was rough, carrying my hair from the updo and ripping it out of its hold. The dark pieces landed in my face, and I did not bother righting them.
This was what it looked like to be a woman against the world.
It was not beautiful, or even pretty, but it was mine.
My place in the world.
The world was mine again if my husband could accept me for who I was and not who he wished me to be. I was not a spinning ballerina creating clouds of candy at her feet. I was a woman who looked life in the face and dared it to challenge her. My truth was where my husband had found it. In my voice. A voice that I would not bother to hide from those who cowered at the truth according to me and my experiences.
I sang him to sleep as if I had taken him in my arms and rocked him there.
Chapter 17
An Echoing Conversation with Nonno
Fausti business always went up. From the roots to the tip. All went to my grandfather, who was the entire tree, so to speak. And this was not ordinary business with my brother,Brando Piero Fausti, but it still took my grandfather some time to summon me to his home in Orvieto regarding it. Nonno lived on the outskirts of the walled city. He enjoyed wide open spaces and tending to his horses and gardens. Orvieto was located between Rome and Florence, in Umbria. It was three hours from Maranello, give or take.
As a young man, I would sword fight with him in a barn outside of one of his properties. An old farmhouse that was not far from the villa. He spent time at both places. He said one reminded him of his roots and the other of where he had reached in his life.
The place crawled with armed guards. None of them stopped me as the gates opened and allowed me entry. I pulled up the long drive, parking behind three cars ahead of me. Nazzareno, mycugino, was visiting. Nazzareno wasZioLothario’s son. Lothario was my father’s second brother. Nazzareno and Nonno shared a special bond, along with features. My father reflected his father, and I reflected mine. Nazzareno, though, resembledmy grandfather in his youth the most. Nazzareno was a pilot. I enjoyed my cousin’s company whenever he decided to land.
The woman who cooked for my grandfather, Agata, opened the door for me before I stepped out of my car. As she waved me inside, a melody of scents drifted out behind her, teasing my stomach and making it growl. She waved even harder when she heard it.
Agata repeated the sound my stomach made and waved a dismissive hand. “You will not go hungry! I will have plenty waiting for you when the meeting is over.SignoreFausti always has a healthy appetite after riding.”
Stopping at the door that led outside to my grandfather’s private heaven, I thanked Agata and then found my way to the fences, following a trail of shading lemon trees that created a canopy. At the end of the trail, the land opened, and white picket fences were arranged to keep the horses in. Nazzareno rested his hands against the wood and watched as Nonno rode his Friesian stallion in the largest yard.
The Friesian had a powerful build. Its mane and tail matched its silky black coat. His mane looked as if it had been crimped. Guerriero, meaning “warrior” in Italian, was his name. The Friesian horse had been considered a war horse when such things existed. My grandfather rode Guerriero as if the horse was still a battle horse, and he was a knight. My grandfather’s sword was draped at his side. I was not sure if it even moved when Guerriero showed his teeth and then stood up on his haunches, his hooves hitting air, before he touched ground again and my grandfather directed him toward the stables.
Nazzareno glanced over his shoulder. Noticing me, he stood straighter, and we embraced.
“Cugino,” he said. “It is good to see you.”
“You as well.”
We talked for a while about his latest trips, caught up on inner family, and then he nodded toward the area where my grandfather had gone.
“Still an excellent swordsman,” he said. “And on Guerriero, I could have mistaken him for a knight in medieval times. He only needs the armor to complete the picture.”
“He paints a picture of a time long gone.”
Nazzareno gave me a slow smile. “I did not know those days, but I miss those days. The swords. The romance. The ruthlessness. Even though I do appreciate the use of a bird in the air and a fast mustang, the kind with four wheels, on the ground in this time.”
“The best of both worlds.” I grinned at him.
We both became quiet as our grandfather walked toward us. Talk about knights and horses brought Brando to the forefront of my thoughts. The tattoo of the ribbon on his arm.
How fucking romantic it was to keep his lady’s ribbon on his body forever. She was with him even when she was not—a reminder of her love and a claim for other women to see. He had been marked by her symbolism. I wondered if Nonno would agree after he saw it. My brotherand grandfather had not met yet. This was the reason for this meeting. I had to send the information up to him, even if father had controlled the first meeting between my estranged brother and me. Fate or not,suo padrehad a hand in it as well.
This meeting was not specifically about my brother’s unannounced entrance into ourfamiglia. Even though Nonno had approved our challenge, he did not approve the stakes of it. He “requested” this meeting with me before we moved forward. Olivier Nemours and his family had made a broad claim—Brando was meddling in a deal that his wife’s mamma had made with Olivier. Brandowas resisting the contract and causing problems.
It seemed Olivier Nemours and his family were willing to go to war over the ballerina.
