A man had walked in during the hush mamma had caused. He was a slight man with birdlike features. He wore round spectacles, and his hair must have been a golden brown once upon a time. The color had faded, and it was speckled with silver. Rocco, Mariano’s uncle, who was next in line to rule the family,got to his feet and offered the man his hand. He squeezed his shoulder and then introduced him to the table.
“Benedetto Dandolo.” Rocco announced. He went on to explain that Benedetto Dandolo’s family had been present when our families had “created” the law between my family and Mariano’s. He would be the mediator, for lack of a better word.
Benedetto Dandolo was a lawyer, same as Rocco, and a historian. His family had marked down the date, the rules, and had brought the two families together in harmony after the couple had almost destroyed their relationship.
This was how our jewelry business was seen to the Fausti family—a marriage.
My great…whatever was the most skilled at designing and creating jewelry of that time. It was said that if you owned one of his pieces, whoever you were vowing your life to would never leave you. He would take a droplet of the couples’ blood and place it in the gold, and whatever magic he was capable of through his hands, God given, was sealed for eternity.
The Fausti family were seen for what they were—status and worth. For all time, our family would be connected to theirs, and so the story goes, the magic my family was known for through their pieces could not become magic unless someone of Fausti blood was linked to it.
As it goes with all good fairytales and stories, however, it was most likely a profitable relationship between the two that neither one wanted to end. The Fausti family had the Capella’s magical jewelry to wear around town, and the Capella’s had a steady stream of income and status.
After the couple almost destroyed the marriage between the two families, and the blood diamond was almost lost forever, the law was set into place.
Here Mariano and I sat, the breakers of that ancient rule, and in the traditional way, we had Benedetto Dandolo as our neutral party in this war of the roses.
My father, the pest that he was, cleared his throat and lifted a finger. “The accused, Mariano Leone Fausti, has calledmydaughterhiswife,” he said. “He is no longer the accused. He isa thief. He has calledone of the Capello womenhiswife.”
Rigid stillness could be seen, and it could be felt. The jolt of it went through the entire Fausti family at the wordthief.I was not sure if Scarlett was holding on to Brando’s hand for her own control or that of her husband’s. My husband did not seem to care about this insult. He was almost grinning at it.
Also,one of the Cappello women? He was so incensed, he refused to call me by my name. He even used Cappello, our business name, as if I was a transaction!
“My husband is no thief.” My voice was smooth but curt. “Iwillinglymarried him.”
“Silence!” my father shouted at me.
Mariano stood, and I grabbed his hand before he could squash my father as if he were a bug.
Benedetto Dandolo fixed his spectacles. “The reason for this meeting isnotto start a war,” he said, giving my father a blank look. “The reason for this meeting is to allow fate to have a say.” He sighed. He looked at Mariano. “Please have a seat, Signor Fausti.”
Mariano kept on his feet for a minute, his eyes never leaving my father’s face, before he fixed his suit and took his seat again.
“Signore,grazie.” Signor Dandolo also fixed his suit and took a seat. He unpacked his bag and looked at Mariano again. “SignorFausti, for the record, please state your name and date of birth.” He held his vintage feather pen over the paper, ready to document.
Mariano did.
SignorDandolo seemed to swirl the answer down in elegant script on what looked like a form. He compared it to another paper he had next to him, his eyes scanning the page. It looked as if it was a record of Mariano’s birth. SignorDandolo looked at me, setting what looked like my birth record next to Mariano’s. Mariano made a pleasurable noise in his throat.
“Connected forever through records, my name and hers,” he said almost to himself, pride in his words and in his stance. I felt it. I felt it as acutely as if a warm wave had swept over my cool body.
“Please state your name, ah, is itsignorinaorsignora?” Signor Dandolo asked me.
“Signora,” I said.
“I see,” he said, looking at Rocco before he jotted that down. “Signora Capella.”
“Fausti,” Mariano corrected.
I squeezed his hand, hard, under the table.Do not push this.However, my husband was in full Fausti mode. This situation spoke to him, and he was eager to swing a sword, or whatever his blood was ordering him to do, in the name of our love.
“Pardon?”Signor Dandolo looked up from the forms.
“My wife’s last name is Fausti.” Mariano nodded to the papers. “Record that as well.”
“Ah, Signor Fausti,”SignorDandolo said, no heat or chill in his voice. No placating tone or note of authority. Purely neutral. “If Fausti will be the name choice, even if a woman does not traditionally take her husband’s last name in Italy, that will be recorded if all works out.”
“Whenit is done,” my husband said.
