She proved me wrong and taught me that.
Part One
Chapter 1
A Storm that Would either Break Against the Shore or Kill Us
Iblinked, bringing the current moment of my life into focus.
Rosaria was sitting at the counter in our bathroom in Maranello. It was spacious enough and had enough lights to serve as a vanity. More luxurious than any of her private dressing rooms. She was speaking Italian to the woman who not only styled her hair but covered the streaks of silver in it with false color.
Even if the woman attempted to conceal it, Rosaria could not hide who she was. Especially after the sands of time had eroded the somewhat caring nature she once had for those closest to us.
Even her sons.
She was hiding from this woman the raging storm inside of her. A storm that would later come out through her mouth and her actions, tearing apart the recipient of her ruthless words and callous nature.
Tonight, she would meet the woman Massimo had already pledged his life to. Chloe. I would stand as the shore that took the impact of Rosaria’s surge and reduced her winds.
Occasionally, Rosaria’s narrowed eyes would meet mine through the mirror, giving me a look that meant she hated me for allowing the marriage. For allowing our son to know love andreturn it. For allowing him to give up the throne for it. For standing in her space and challenging her.
I did not narrow my eyes in return or give her any reaction. She had long ago drained me of those. I only stared back, and when she could not hold it, she turned her eyes back to herself. Where she always felt the most comfortable.
She laughed and waved her hand. She was looking forward to moving into my father’s walled city and taking over his ancientcastellothat had been there for centuries. She spoke of redoing the entire place to the woman flittering around her.
It was not her place to do as she wished with it. My father still lived in it. For the foreseeable future, I would rule from Maranello. Perhaps when the time came for me to decide where I ruled, or what to do with the walled city, I would allow my son and his wife to live in the ancientcastello.
As if she had heard my thoughts, Rosarianarrowed her eyes at me and her hands turned into claws, digging into her legs. She had developed stronger reactions to my non-reactions. It seemed to anger her more than when I had reacted. Her tantrums had reached colossal levels. Her anger was no longer contained inside of her. She lashed out at me, going for my heart. I gave her my chest, if she wished to carve it out, but she would only cause me stitches.
She thought herself a Fausti.
A Fausti would have the courage to go deeper and steal what was left of it straight from my chest.
However, she had gone the Caffi way, going against the rules I set, when she started to fall for a man in New York. A man whose heart was stolen from his chest before he stepped into the tub, his blood pooling around him instead of water. A reminder was left. Her picture in the cavity of his empty chest.
My heart had made that ruling long ago, and she had defied it—if she should love without barbs, she would not love at all. It was not done out of honor, as it usually was, but out of spite.
I did not believe even love could save us any longer.La fedeltà. Loyalty to thefamigliawas the only vein connecting her to me and me to her. Just as she had wished it.
The stylist packed up her things and went to slip past me. Our eyes connected, and in the connection, I recalled her warm body against mine, her lips satisfied with the temporary pleasure between us. She was not hungry for a heart connection, but a bank-account-to-money one.
Rosaria watched us, a knowing grin on her face.
Perhaps the woman had been between Rosaria and another lover. The timing of our affairs held the truth of this: if I tasted my wife through the woman or if my wife tasted me through her.
After removing her silk robe, Rosaria turned around slowly, lifting her arms, naked. “See,amante.” The grin grew bolder when her turn was complete, and she set her hands against her thighs. “No weapons. Not that it would even take one made of steel to hurt the daughter of a whore.”
“Dress,” I ordered.
She sighed. “You will handle the zipper,” she said as she removed the dress from a mannequin that was molded to her body measurements and stepped inside of it. She held the top close to her breasts as I found the blind zipper and secured her inside of it. The dress was red and black. Florals in patterns that mimicked a mosaic masterpiece made it seem as if she was wearing the window art of a gothic chapel.
She shivered and blinked at me when my skin touched hers. She was defiant, but somewhere deep inside of her, she knew my body still ruled hers. I had made the claim, and it had stuck.
She stared into my eyes from one of the many mirrors, whispering, “We are still the most beautiful couple; just look at us,amante.”She sang a melody to me that was opposite of who we were together—ruthless.
Barbs from not that long ago snagged and pulled, as if I was a fish on a hook.
She had made a claim on me as well.
