The daughter of a Caffi, who was on her way to becoming a legend herself in that world, marrying into the Faustifamigliawas cause for a stir in our social circles. My father was pleased with my choice. My grandfather was pleased with the match. I was the heir to the Fausti throne, and choosing my queen was just as important as rising to accept my birthright. No expense would be spared on our wedding.
We would be married in Rome, at San Giovanni e Paolo al Celio, a basilica that was important to the Caffi family. Both of Rosaria’s parents would sing during our ceremony, which made my heart long for my father. His voice could rival any acclaimed tenor’s. I had always imagined his rich and boisterous voice filling the walls where I’d repeat sacred vows on sacred ground.
Our reception would be held at Villa Medici, a venue only a handful of people had used for the same purpose. The land held links to my own lineage.
It was not going to be a small affair. Between the Caffi family and the Fausti family, we had narrowed down our guest list to fifteen hundred. That was keeping it intimate for us.
Before the mirror in my dressing room, I fixed my hair and straightened my custom-made tuxedo once more. My brothers came to stand behind me, looking me in the eye.
Dario nodded at me, fixing his tuxedo. “I will see that grandfather is all taken care of, brother,” he spoke to me in Italian.
I nodded to him. “He will arrive at the church not long before me, or so Uncle Tito confirmed.”
Uncle Tito was my grandfather’s right-hand man in our life. He was a confidant. A brother not through blood but marriage. Tito Sala was married to my great-aunt, Lola Fausti. Uncle Tito also took care of our immediate family’s needs, as far as doctoring. He was one of the best. As was per the usual with the Faustis, we surrounded ourselves by nothing but the greats.
Dario checked his reflection in the mirror once more, then left to make sure Nonno was taken care of. He would appreciate the gesture.
Romeo stared at himself through the mirror, fixing his hair, perhaps for the hundredth time that day. His eyes were not as bright as when he usually did this. Something bothered him.
“Tell me,” I said in Italian, “what is on your mind.”
He fixed his hair once more, then met my eyes again. “Bonfilia,” he said, speaking the name of my father’s wife.
Bonfilia was not my mamma. I did not know who my truemamma was. We were never told. My brothers and I did not share the same one. My father had children with three different women to secure his place in the family. He was to lead someday, as was I, but Bonfilia could not produce heirs for him. She could not have children. My father and Bonfilia’s marriage was an arrangement my grandfather had made. Since Bonfilia could not have children of her own, my father had them with three different women who had been chosen to carry on our line.
The only positive thought that came to mind when I thought of Bonfilia was that I was thankful she was not my mamma, and I was not related to her. None of my brothers were. She was not a woman who was maternal. She had a wicked temper and would not hesitate to bruise if she felt we had done something wrong. I oversaw my brothers, and we were Faustis, which meant we were men before we even turned a legal age. We did not step out of bounds and trip over our laws.
Bonfilia just had a mean streak and did not always care for the situation she had found herself in with my father. He was indifferent to her, and since he was in jail in America, she was all but forgotten. Except for his sons. The blood he left behind for her to look after.
I fixed my suit. “She will be at the church,” I said.
“Sì.” Romeo seemed to stand even taller. “I know this.”
“If you know this, tell me, why are we discussing it, brother.”
He steeled the features of his face, Fausti blood never so apparent in him. He fixed his suit, then faced me. “Permission to speak freely on this day of your wedding.”
I nodded. “Permission granted.”
“Your intended, Rosaria Caffi, she reminds me of Bonfilia, but with a better set of pipes.” He fixed his suit again. “She sings beautifully, almost hypnotically, but underneath the surface of her, there is something I do not care for, brother. Something that will not make you happy for the rest of your life.”
I squeezed his shoulder. “Is marriage all happiness then?”
He shook his head. “I do not believe it is, but I also believethere should be mutual adoration. Rosaria Caffi only adores our last name.”
“It is one to adore, as is hers.”
“It is,” he agreed. “However, what about you, brother? Shouldn’t she love and adore you, even without a last name?”
My brothers had a better chance at claiming the love I had always craved then I did. I would rule our world one day, if time was not as ruthless as the blood in my veins, and my brothers were mostly free to find women and love on their own terms, even if it would suit our branch of thefamigliabetterto find matches such as the Caffi family.
“I have seen the way Rosaria looks you,” he continued. “There is lust there.Want.But beyond that, I am not sure if what I am seeing—her smile when she does not think you are watching, the way she stares at you in the darkness, the candlelight reflecting in her eyes—is on the surface or not. The only thing I know for certain is that she is in love with the Fausti name. I do not care to see you with a problem our father has had to endure. This problem being named Bonfilia, but in a different time and place—renamed Rosaria and Rocco, instead of Bonfilia and Luca. She has been aviperain Papà’s bed. I would prefer a witch. At least a witch is semi human.”
“Tell me, do you suggest I walk away.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Sì.”
A rumble of laughter echoed from the hollows of my chest to my mouth. Romeo blinked at me as I squeezed his shoulder even harder and walked him to the door. “Rosaria Caffi is my wife, Romeo Piero, and you will treat her as the sister you never had.”
