Sighing, I started for the steps, stopping in my office. I rested my jacket over the back of the chair before I lit the fireplace. The first rush of heat in the air was immediate, but thechill that followed began the war in the room. I went to the stereo system and pressed play. Rosaria’s father serenaded me from the box. I rolled my sleeves up, going for the bar. I made myself a glass of whiskey and sat in the moody darkness drinking glass after glass, until the flames stood still instead of swaying. The bottle glistened amber, and the crystal glass sparked a rainbow of colors.
I stared at the fire until my vision turned dark and smoky, the thoughts in my mind bright and clear. I thought of my son’s wedding, the one he should have had, and perhaps I would reserve that date as a day of silence. It was not a day to celebrate but to mourn all that had been lost. Perhaps Rosaria’s mouth should be stitched up in honor of her vicious truth. I made a grunting noise that came from a hollow area in my chest. If it were only that simple. I did not believe needle and thread was strong enough to quiet her.
A shadow passed in front of the door—a quick, cold wind, there and then gone. It was my wife, though she did not stop. She crept around her gilded prison, scheming for a way out and allowing all the rage she usually inflicted upon the world to build up inside of her.
She did not care that our first grandson was not with us because of her. She only cared about his position in the family. She made that clear when she asked my father if Michelangelo’s place with extended family would move him up the line to rule someday. Rosaria always planned for the future, and even from her deathbed, the control she craved as much as love would be her companion, reminding her that she was about to lose all control.
Control would be her last kiss goodbye.
One of those barbs she had inserted inside of me long ago tugged. It was a painful ache. If something should happen to her, she would sing to me until I followed, damning us both to an eternity together.
Running a hand through my hair, I stood from my desk, grabbing my glass and a new bottle of whiskey before I went to the master suite. I had entered purgatory, my office, and went directlyto hell. The room was entirely red from the blazing fireplace, its flames only licking higher and hotter, reacting to the open balcony door.
Rosaria was standing outside, facing away from me.
She blended with the darkness, but the outline of red from the fire, the smoke giving her definition as it clung to her, and her perfume gave her away. I set the bottle and glass down on a table next to the lounge chair. I opened the bottle, but before I could pour the liquid into the crystal, it was snatched out of my hand.
“You smell like the daughter of a whore!” she shouted at me.
I sighed. “I did not realize so many of those existed in the world.”
Her imprisonment in the gilded cage was going to her mind. She had been successful in breaking our son’s heart, but she was paying the price for it. Woe to Rosaria that she was. She did the crime, but she refused to pay the fine.
“Do not patronize me, Rocco Fausti.”
“Was not.”
Her eyes narrowed, and then she smiled. “How much of that whiskey did you drink?”
“Enough,” I said. “Enough to kill me if you poisoned it.”
She ticked her mouth. “What would I be without you, king?” She cocked her head to the side. “Do you take me asstupida?”
“Not once in my life,” I said.
She laughed, and it seemed to hiss as the wood being consumed by the fire did. “Of course. You are an intelligent man. You would not dare doubt me.”
Her eyes were wide and frantic. Her hands were balled into fists. She spoke to me in a normal tone, but it was as if the last bolt that held the rage down was beginning to slip.
“I have demands,” she said. “If Luca will not give them to me, you will soon enough.”
My eyes dropped to meet hers.
“Matteo and his daughter of a whore will raiseMichelangelo, just ashelpwould. This was why I wanted to have more help withyours. Luca put an end to that, but look where it has gotten them! All butMarziohas grown attachments to you.” She waved a hand. “This will not happen with Michelangelo. He will depend on those two for basic needs. He will not be coddled or treated as if the sun will stop shining if he does not smile. Perhaps I will not be here to see the day Michelangelo rules, but I will put the plan into motion.”
“Go on,” I said, allowing her the chance to release what had been pent up inside of her.
“I will be free,” she said, “or I will cause a war that will make the one with the Nemours seem as though boys were at the hands of toy soldiers playing make believe.”
She swayed before my eyelids drifted shut for a moment. “No,” I said, my voice firm, unwavering.
“To which demand?” She crossed her arms over her chest, her foot tapping.
“Both.”
Turning, she lifted her arm and flung the bottle full of whiskey at the wall. It shattered into hundreds of pieces, the liquid running toward the fire, causing balls of it to appear in the fireplace. Blood ran down my face from the ricochet of the glass. Perhaps pieces of the glass had embedded in my skin.
She started screeching at me, and I almost had the urge to cover my ears. The sharpness of it was piercing my eardrums, causing my heart to race. It was as if she was inside of my head, and her voice was a bell ringing inside of it.
