Remo stood on the other side, a tray in his hands. The sight of it, the kindness in the gesture, made me lose control. I covered my face and sobbed.
The tray fell to the floor and his arms were around me, walking me to the desk in my room, setting me down on the chair, letting me purge all the feelings swirling inside of me, threatening to commandeer the ship.
Me.
I was the ship.
He was a strong, silent presence, allowing me to cry it out.
The entire situation was so odd. I had never allowed the people inside of this palazzo to get to me this way. I was always so much stronger than my circumstances.
After…however long…I removed my hands from my face and met his eyes. “She has never hit me before,” I whispered.
Mamma had told me plenty of things over the years, the same as my father—leave Capri be!Even when Capri was the one always starting trouble with me. She had never touched me that way before, though, with such malice. For as far back as I could remember, she had never touched me at all.
He removed the pocket square from his suit, and I thought he was going to extend it to me. Our hands met halfway, but he continued toward my face. He dabbed my tears gently.
“You did not deserve that,” he whispered, then he allowed me to take the square from him and wipe my own face.
To be honest, I was in shock at his gesture of kindness. The same amount of shock at what had happened with mamma.
“Grazie,” was all I could think to say, but it almost sounded as if it were a question.
Remo nodded toward the door. “I will get you another tray, Sistine.”
What had just happened? I was not sure, but I did not know if I liked it. It made me feel anxious. I had never felt that way with Remo before. We talked quite a bit, because we had nothing else to do, and we even began a chess game out on the balcony. This.Thatmoment when he tended to me when I was crying. I felt a shift in him. A protectiveness that felt almost…territorial.
He was my chaperone. My husband’s cousin, no matter how far down the line, and one of his men. I was also starting to consider him a cousin as well. Nothing more.
Remo came back with the tray, and I suggested we sit outside on the balcony. We needed to be outside of the bedroom. Neither of us said anything as we ate. I mostly picked at mine while he devoured his.
Remo was no doubt a Fausti. He shared their powerful good looks and their commanding build. He was his father’s son without the scar Vincenzo wore. However. Remo Fausti was not Mariano Fausti, and although I enjoyed his company, my heart turned away from even the thought of him being next to me.
He was not my husband. Nor could he ever be.
I sighed, and it sounded wistful. I wished I could go back and erase the last hour or so from my life. I did not want to hurt Remo, if that was where his intentions were headed. I did not ever wish to have the ability to read people as Scarlett and Mia were able to, but I wished for it in that moment, so perhaps I could say something that would diffuse the situation if Remo’s feelings were going in that direction.
However, I did not think it took Scarlett or Mia’s ability to feel the protectiveness coming from the man sitting across the table from me.
I stood abruptly, not sure where to redirect the anxiety flowing through me suddenly. “I have been wanting to look at the room where my family stores old things,” I said, not even sure if that was worded correctly.
Remo stood directly after me, nodding.
It did not seem as if he was feeling my anxiety, or that he was choosing to ignore it. Fausti men were built different. These men felt everything, it seemed, or sensed it, especially from women, and even so, not much deterred them.
I was thankful that we were both quiet as we found the room used for storage. I started to dig through boxes, and so did Remo. He asked me if there was something I was looking for in particular.
“A picture,” I said. “A picture of my great-grandmother.”
It had felt imperative to me for some reason to find one. My grandfather had told me that, if one still existed, it would have been in the storage room. My grandfather also told me my father never liked my great-grandmother. My father was never her favorite. Perhaps because she had tried to teach him the word no. It felt so important for me to find a link to this family, because, despite being told they were mine, I never felt they were.
Remo cleared this throat. “You were pushed down the stairs.”
My eyes rose to meet his. “I, ah, I am not sure. You heard that?”
“Your mamma said so when she was dozing off after the shot. I did not understand how it could have been your sister, if you were the baby then. She is older.”
“Right,” was all I could say.
