I nodded at that, too, thinking back on the time my old man went after the sheriff of Natchitoches when he’d twisted Matteo’s ear. It had been a long time coming, but it all played out on the playground. My old man didn’t fuck around when it came to his.Padrinowas right. Neither did mamma. She would have twisted the sheriff’s ear in retaliation if it wasn’t for my old man being there.
I gave a curt nod to Donato as I made my way toward a line of trucks belonging to the ranch.
My phone lit up.
My wife.
She had sent me a picture from earlier that night. She and I together at the bar. I was holding her around her waist, and she was gazing at my face. I was gazing at her. She had sent a few of them. She had added music to the montage. The melody of it was haunting.
I made a noise in my throat, not able to stop the thoughts haunting me, the song from the montage giving them background noise. The thoughts of that cold night, my wife driving alone on the roads, her hot temper and flip mouth pissing off a cold-blooded killer. The venomous snake in her face. Her cousin—my cousin’s heart. What had happened to Atta. How she had saved my wife from a similar fate.
The fear both women must have experienced…
The timing of the bison…
Suddenly, it felt as if my wife was on the other side of the world, hidden from me again, and I couldn’t get to her fast enough.
My plan had been to hot-wire one of the ranch’s trucks and use it to drive to our cabin. I’d run it instead.
I’d run by the light of the moon.
Remo had left the barn before we did. He had escorted my wife to our cabin. She demanded to go.
Our property slowly inched forward, and close enough, I stopped, wiping sweat from my brow. I walked the rest of the distance to our place, relieving Remo and men of their duties for the night—for the day. If my grandfather didn’t issue an order, I’d be with my wife all day in our cabin.
My feet refused to move when my eyes found her.
My Sistine.
A religious experience.
My Annie.
Created for me.
After the men were gone, she rushed out of the cabin, stopping short right outside of the threshold of the door. Her hair was wild. Her eyes were wide, though I could tell she was exhausted. She carried a quilt around her shoulders.
Underneath, she was naked.
Her eyes took me in like she thought she’d lost me, and suddenly, there I was. Her man standing in front of her—wearing not only the blood of her enemies, but blood he had shed in her honor.
“I have taken care of the snakes,” I said in Italian. “You do not have to be afraid any longer, my heart.”
In the glow of the light on the porch, I could see two crystal teardrops glide down her cheeks. She pulled the quilt tighter around her shoulders. Her skin was pale in the waning moonlight. Her lips rosy.
She rushed down the steps, coming to stand in front of me, her breath smelling of whiskey again. She tilted some as a breeze swept past us. Her hair invaded her face, and I had to control the impulse to touch her. To remove anything that stopped my eyes from connecting with hers. I was covered in blood.
Her hand came up and tenderly touched my eye. I had allowed the dead man to get a punch in. She shook her head. “If he was not dead,” she whispered, but it was fierce, full of fire from her unbreakable spirit, “I would kill him again.”
I would kill him again.
This woman understood what it meant for me to be a Fausti. She had usedIbut she’d meant me, her husband and protector. She was giving me the honor of killing in her name again. I protected her. Her heart knew it and accepted it. She could send me into battle, into a war I knew I couldn’t win, with just a point of her accusing finger.
Our eyes locked.
“I am not afraid of anything but losing you, Mariano Leone Fausti,” she whispered in Italian with more conviction than my heart could take. “Mariano Leone Fausti,myhusband.”
A shuddering breath left my mouth.
