I could have sworn he said under his breath,just as we treated Bonfilia as the mamma we never had, but the sound of his voice was drowned out by the roaring applause that began as we stepped outside of the villa.
A Fausti was getting married, and our entire belovedItalia,and beyond,was celebrating the union.
Camilla Amoroso serenaded her daughter, who was being walked by her father, down the aisle.
Rosaria Caffi took slow steps toward me, drawing the moment out, her face covered by a sheer veil. Her gown was white with warm yellow undertones. The ivory shimmered with the divine attention of the candlelight, and so did all the crystals. As she grew closer to me, she smiled, reveling perfect teeth and lips that were a ravishingrosso. Her dark green eyes shimmered as her father set her hand in mine.
Rosaria was not a purely traditional women, but the entirety of the moment was.
Her father giving me her hand in holy matrimony was symbolic.
Eduardo Caffi was entrusting me with his daughter’s life. It was a vow I would take to my grave. Rosaria Caffi might have been a strong woman, but I was promising to protect her for all my days, and it was a promise I took to heart.
I squeezed her hand as we walked to the waitingpadretogether. “You are a vision,” I said to her in Italian.
“I know,” she whispered, her hand in mine as steady as the floor beneath our feet. Solid.
We repeated our nontraditional vows in Italian. Our promises were centered around thefamigliaand our loyalty toward their laws.
I waited for the moment—the rush that would flow in my chest like hot lava, waking my sleeping lion and the mighty roar that would follow. However, the beats of my heart were as steady as her hand in mine. Neither of us seemed to tremble for the other, but she could still that insistent quivering that the sword of two sides—romantic and ruthless—had caused after it had impaled my heart made of steel.
I had always envisioned a love that could bring me to my knees.
Rosaria Caffi did not bring me to my knees, but she steadied them.
In front of God and our guests, thepadrepronounced us husband and wife. I lifted her veil and set a chaste kiss against her lips.
Again, her eyes closed, and it was only the second time I received a reaction from theuccello canoro.Her breath slowly slipped past her lips and the warmth of it washed over mine.
We parted at the sound of thundering applause, and her face transformed in an instant. It was the same face she wore after one of her life-changing performances. Cameras surrounded us, capturing every second of our first movements as husband and wife. I kept her hand in mine as we walked out of the basilica together.
Rosaria instructed me when to stop so the cameras could catch the most picturesque photos. A horse and carriage waited for us. We took it to the reception. It was the first time we’d been alone since the night of her performance at Teatro di San Carlo. She turned to me with a wide smile on her face. “I am a Fausti,” she said.
“You are, officially.”
Our eyes searched—green against green—but perhaps the only truth we both found was her fascination with my family, and my fascination with her voice. Perhaps she sensed this. She cleared her throat and began to serenade me through the ancient streets of Rome. Crowds gathered around to catch a glimpse of the magical bird that was giving them a free taste of Italian culture.
Some of the patrons clapped as we moved past them, screaming, “Bravo!”
Rosaria ate it up.
Instead of a bird, I was wondering if she was more like a ham.
The thought made me grin, wishing it would have endeared her to me some, but for whatever reason, it did not. I would have told her that, but a woman would never find it amusing to be compared to a pig, in cuteness or not. Her face was alreadypinched at the grin on my face. I could tell she wanted me to clap and throw myself at her feet, like one of her fans would have done.
I gave her a soft “bravo,” because the performance was stellar, but it did not go beyond that. In this setting, she had produced a beautiful sound, but something was missing from it.
The truth that had pulled me closer to her on that stage—the truth that had sealed both of our fates.
As the horses stopped galloping in front of Villa Medici, we were thrust forward some before settling, and I fixed my tux as I stepped out of the carriage first. I gave Rosaria my hand and she took it, but we separated right after, only standing close to each other for the cameras and our guests.
Nonno was the first to greet us. Rosaria all but bowed to him, telling him how proud she was to be a part of the Faustifamiglia. He nodded to her, and after nodding to me, disappeared into the night to find food, drink, and men he was known to find deep conversation with. One of them being Mac Macchiavello’s grandfather, Pasquale Ranieri. Mac was not his real name, but a moniker. Mac had a lot going on in New York, and only my family knew the truth. Mac and I went back a long time, and he was one of the smartest men I knew.
My grandfather said Mac inherited his smarts—both book and street—from Pasquale. Pasqualehad been a world-renowned poet and novelist. He’d won the Nobel Prize in Literature in the 1970s. My grandfather found the contrast between the two of them to be fascinating. The two men argued a lot, but it was all in the name of the two sides they stood for. My grandfather with a sword. Pasquale with a pen.
Mac and I both stood with a sword, even though he was a genius when it came to technology. I could handle my own in that regard, but I had a feeling that, if a Nobel Prize was available for computer literacy, Mac would have won it.
After I introduced my wife to Mac, and she stared openly at the scar around his throat, she broke from me and went to acluster of women, who surrounded her. She was showing off her sparkling new wedding rings.
