The door to my room burst open, and Remo stood in it, his eyes frantic as he seemed to search my room.
“I am here!” I shouted, rushing toward him, with all my might, burying the residual panic of the last…however long Iggy had been in my room.
Remo stepped into my room, fixing his dapper suit jacket. He wore a tuxedo and a mask reminiscent of the Phantom. It was half white, half black, a jagged line cutting through the center of the two colors.
“Your sister said she heard a male voice,” he said, and his nostrils flared before he took off for the balcony.
I hurried behind him, meeting him outside.
He spun on me. “I smell a male. Do not lie to me.”
I sighed. “I do not want my family to know. If they find out, they will call Mariano on purpose. He will break the agreement, and we will have to wait longer.”
His stern eyes bore into mine. He noticed that I had not truly answered him.
“Iggy,” I barely got out.
His eyes widened before he started to look me over, almost frantically.
“No. No.” I waved both of my hands. “He did not come here to hurt me. He came to tell me something.”
His eyebrow quirked up at this.
“He came to tell me…ah, he came to tell me, ah…he loves me.” I rushed the last three words out. I expected he would make a face, as if he did not believe me, but he did not.
He nodded, a serious look overtaking his face. “I am sure he does.” His eyes raked over my body.
These men were not ordinary in so many ways, and one of the most powerful tools in their arsenal was their eyes. Whenever one of them looked over a woman in such a way, she could physically feel it, as if his hands had reached out and touched her. Atta and I had both confirmed this, taking it from theory to fact. I took a step out of reach, putting space between Remo and me.
“I better go,” I said. “I will be late.”
He nodded, but his eyes refused to leave mine. Then I heard my father shouting for me. My sister must have told him about the male voices. He came to a halt in front of my door, his eyes narrowing. I started for him.
Dannazione!I forgot about the waterlily Iggy had brought me. It was soaking wet, and we did not keep those flowers in the palazzo, so it might raise suspicion. I was debating on whether I should try to kick it underneath my vanity or leave well enough alone.
Remo was still on the balcony. His back was to me. I caught something white going over the edge, drifting to the water in a slow rock. When I looked back at the floor, there was no sign of the flower. Remo must have picked it up after I went to the door. Although the Fausti men seemed to be carved out of marble, they all moved like sneaky cats.
Remo turned, fixing his tuxedo, and came to meet me by the door. My father grumbled something, then told me it was time for me to leave the room.
As my father walked away, my eyes locked with Remo’s, and I mouthed, “Grazie.”
“I did not do this for him,” he said, his tone cold. “I did this for you. I will take care of the shattered glass as well.”
For him.
He did not mean Iggy.
He meant my husband.
From my father being high on life, which was the same as saying the sun shone at night and the moon during the day, to the staring contests my sister and I were constantly engaged in…what a night it was turning out to be.
It seemed my dress infuriated my sister.
As did my entire existence.
She had designed a serpentine line of jewelry. I had designed a butterfly line.
I did not find the winged things particularly symbolic, but in that moment, I did find something close to my own life. The metamorphosis of it. How much I was changing. There were times I did not even recognize myself. I was still making introductions between the old me and the new me—the two having core values to share.
