“I am giving you one more chance, Rocco Fausti!” she screamed. “If you do not free me, allow me to leave on my own terms, Iamleaving. This was not part of our arrangement. We came together in honor of the family, not to be separated by it. I am leaving and will go to the Russians if my demands are not met. I know who to speak to! It is not Luca Fausti.Youwill call him!” She shoved a phone at me, but I did not take it.
Why are you this way?The question was on the tip of my tongue, but I was not in the habit of asking questions I knew theanswer to, even in the state I was in. Rosaria had proved over the years that Rosaria’s choices were her own. She made her own self happy, and damn the rest of the world if her needs were not met. This rage and defiance had been building up in her for years, but it took my father restricting her access to the world and our family for it to burst from her seams.
“No,” I said—simple and direct.
She screamed so loud I was not sure if one of our heads had exploded after. I was left with a ringing in my ears that made the bells seem tame. It rocked me on my feet. For a moment, I wondered if she had hit a note high enough to shatter glass. She could achieve this with her voice. Had done it before.
In front of the fireplace, the shards turned into small weapons, except for one piece, a chunk, which she snatched up, not even flinching when it cut her hand. Blood stained the glass as she held it up, coming toward my chest.
She was going to stab me in the heart.
I was going to allow her to.
At the last second, instead of impaling me with it, she made a slicing motion, diagonal, and cut me across the chest. Making another irrevocable mark on me. She had done it before, one night in Switzerland, but not to this extent. Perhaps what she had given me mixed with the whiskey had made my blood too thin. It poured from my chest, saturating my white shirt, turning it purple. My skin had torn as paper would, showcasing what was inside of me.
Flesh and bone.
I kept my eyes on hers. She took slow steps toward the door. I swayed a bit, allowing the blood to run freely, and the fire in my chest to warm me. It was the first time I felt something other than cold in much too long. I missed the feeling. Craved it. Prayed it consumed me.
Dropping the dagger, she ran, calling for my men to attend to me. I knew that, with the attention off her, she was leaving. A show of defiance to the Fausti family. If she leftthese premises, she would be personally challenging Luca Fausti. She would become a traitor to the family by reaching out to the Russians and Nemours, swapping information with them for the freedom she had demanded of me, which I had denied. Or perhaps she would have to answer for my death. My rich blood was spilling too quickly for my body to replenish.
I was just a man with a weary lion’s heart.
Either way, we were both dead.
Chapter 5
Timing was All Wrong...or Was It?
Traveling to Italy took a lot out of me, but at the same time, I felt relieved.
The reasons why I felt so tired, though?
First, the plane ride felt like it lasted forever. Flying didn’t paralyze me with fear or anything, but I had never flown until the long trip over the Atlantic to Italy. I judged my level of panic on other passengers’ reactions. The flight was smooth in that regard, even if I couldn’t sleep.
Second, I didn’t have the entire Italian/Sicilian language, and that presented several challenges. I travelled alone, and I had to try to keep up alone.
Third, what was up with public transportation in this country? It was never on time.
Which brought me to my last point.
If I didn’t get to the docking area and make the boat, I was in serious trouble. I was traveling from Louisiana to a private island off the Sicilian coast that I would call home for the summer. If I did my job and did it well, I could possibly stay for another month, help to shut down the island for the remainder of the season. I had taken a big risk leaving home and relocating to acountry I had never been to before. But the risk in this country was better than being slaughtered in my own.
My eyes took in the passengers of the rocking bus, and I held my bag closer to my chest. I pulled my rolling case closer, keeping a hand on it. I wasn’t cautious because I thought any of these people would steal my things. It was because if I had to run, I would have my things ready. I would use my suitcase as a weapon.
Overall, though, the relief to finally be in Italy put me at ease, and so did the rocking of the bus as it climbed streets that seemed too narrow for a bus of this size to fit on. I looked out the window and turned my eyes down. It almost seemed as if I was back on the plane for as high as this hill—or was it a mountain?—rose to the sky.
Below, it seemed like an empty abyss. I couldn’t see past the dark wall that seemed to separate me from the great void. Better for me. I was not a woman who frightened easily. I was more of a free spirit—a “try anything once” kind of woman. Especially food. I was the most adventurous person I knew when it came to trying something most people turned their noses up at. But that was a far drop for any living thing without a parachute or wings.
Choosing to ignore it, I forced my thoughts forward.
The private island.
Or specifically, Aria Island, which seemed meant to be, since we shared the same name.
Aria.
Except I was Aria Amora Bella. An extremely romantic name for someone who wrote criminal thrillers.
