He sighed even harder and rose to his feet. “You are sure about the drink?”
I held a hand up, meaning,I am.
“Do you mind?” He nodded to his small bar.
“Go ahead,” I said.
He got up, turning his back on me, and for some reason, his appearance captured my attention. Compared to my grandfather, this man reminded me of a cartoon grandfather. He had white hair and a thin face, and his back was crooked. His hands were gnarled from arthritis. Maybe from his line of work.
My grandfather’s back was as stiff as a board, and his skin was taut against his muscles. Luca Leone Fausti could walk through a hail of bullets and make it to the other side unscathed, age be damned.
It wasn’t a contrast that threw me often, but when it happened, I realized how different the Faustis were from the rest of the world.
Adone almost fell into his swivel seat with wheels. When he breathed out, I smelled the drink he’d just taken on his breath.
“Respectfully, tell me how serious your family is about the law that no Fausti can marry a Capella,” I said.
Adone sighed. Longer this time. “Depends on who is leading the family—on our side. We have a similar hierarchy as the Fausti family, as far as who leads the business. My son, Flavio, is set to take over the business at the start of the new year. He’s on vacation with his wife. They enjoy skiing at this time of the year.
“We have not had a situation come up—except for once. My daughter. I was against it. It did not happen. However, per the laws of our family, if a man is interested in marrying one of our women, we are to say no, but if the man would feel secure enough to challenge fate…” He shrugged. “Who are we, as mere mortals, to challenge something that is greater than any man?”
“Ah,” I said. “Challenge fate. The ring.”
“Yes, the ring. However, I will note. Capri can be very persuasive when she wants something.” He winked at me. “Perhaps my son will be lenient and favorable toward the match.”
“Capri,” I repeated, then grinned.
We both knew I wasn’t there for Capri. The old man was attempting to goad me.
He took another swig of his drink, and his eyes moved down my body. They widened when they came to my ribs. He stood so fast his chair flew back. “You have a fresh wound.”
I waved a hand. “A suture popped.”
“We must stop the bleeding.”
I watched as he moved around his office to an antique cabinet in the corner. He opened it and pulled out a plastic box with medical supplies. He set it on the desk.
“Your uncle, Tito, who I have great respect for, taught me basic medical procedures. I can fix the suture.”
I stood from my seat and removed my shirt. He whistled when he examined the damage. He cleaned his hands with alcohol and then started threading the needle. I hadn’t taken into consideration how thick his glasses were. He was pinching his face and moving it forward and backwards, like he could see, but better from different positions.
“It seems more than one has come undone. I will fix them all. My wife was a better seamstress, but I work in a pinch.” He licked his lips. “I cannot allow our patrons to leave wounded. Your family would not appreciate this. As we would not appreciate one of our own being ignored when wounded.” He looked at me, a few droplets of sweat sliding down his face. “This should not hurt.”
“Not a bit,” I said, and took a breath as he patched me up.
My skin was sore, and sweat dripped down my face and neck, but pain was background noise to me.
As he discovered a rhythm, he told me that being a jeweler for the Fausti family was dangerous business, which was why the great Tito Sala had taught him basics when it came to patching people up. The jewelry family had security for a reason, and they were all trained to use weapons, as far back as our family, which meant that sword fighting had been a thing for them too. Some of the Fausti family’s treasures were priceless. Like everything in life that was, some people wanted it for their own gain, or for the challenge. Or both. That meant the Cappello business could become a highly sought-out mark.
Once the sutures were back in place, the bleeding slowed, he wiped the area with alcohol again. He went back to the cabinet and handed me a different shirt—the same style as mine.
He read the question on my face—the lift of my eyebrows.
He shrugged. “We prepare for all contingencies. Most of the men in the Fausti family are of similar build.”
His comment made it seem like we were all carbon copies of each other. When I considered it, I had to agree. There was always something that connected one Fausti to another Fausti. Deeper than the tattoos that marked us. We all had the same inked insignia. A lion with a sacred heart, a rosary around his neck, was somewhere on our bodies, forever marking us as belonging.
A buzzing sound echoed inside of the office. It would have been an obnoxious noise if, in that moment, it didn’t send a different message. Possible danger.
