The evening air was full of humidity, windy, and I was thankful I had styled my hair the way I had. It would not come loose while I ate. I could smell the scent of roasting meat and spices in the air. A table had been set up with white linen cloths and fine china. Candles swayed inside of lanterns that had been placed all around the sand. The true fire came from the residual heat of the sun. The beach glowed with streaks of peach and pink. The world around us was highlighted, even us.
My husband pulled my seat out.
Women who worked on the island served us dinner from the inside of ourbure. They were so friendly, very warm and welcoming, but after our plates were filled, they left.
“Steak,” I breathed out, my mouth watering. “Juicy steak.”
After I had gotten sick from the food at the banquet, I had not looked at seafood in the same way. I tore into my food, savoring every bite. It was a miracle I had not gained weight on the island, but perhaps because we were active (even staying in bed with Mariano Fausti counted as my daily exercise), my weightseemed to be staying the same. Although I was leaner in places, more defined. No sight of a bulge yet.
We ate in silence for a moment or two until Mariano took a drink, then cleared his throat. “Why do you love my brothers?”
The question came so fast, no rhyme or reason, my head almost spun.
I set my fork down, dabbing my lips with a cloth napkin. “I believe the term I used was siblings…”
“Meaning, my sister and brothers.”
I nodded. “As family. Just as family.”
He nodded. “Even Matteo?”
Where was this headed? I was almost anxious to find out, however… “Is there something wrong with him?”
He shrugged. “I get Marciano. He’s a little…” He made a twirly motion against his temple. “Like when he was a kid, he was the only one who ever threw a tantrum, and when someone on mamma’s side died, he said, ‘Fucking sweet. We get donuts and food.’”
The drink I had just taken sprayed out. Mariano grinned, wiping his face with his hand. Then he licked his lips, as if he were tasting me in the drink.
“Papà Brando must have whooped hisculofor that.”
“Nah,” he said. “My old man mostly talked to us. We knew how far to push. None of us wanted to go toe to toe with him. Not even Marci. We respect our father.”
I grinned. “Marcianohates when you call him that.”
“I know.” His grin came slow.
“I have no problem with Matteo.” I waved a hand, dismissing an issue.
He stared at me for a second. “Most people find him intense.”
I shrugged. “Perhaps another man would, but I do not find him intimidating.” I lifted a finger. “No more intimidating than you.”
“You find me intimidating.”
What was with all these questions? Or even statements? I was not sure, but I enjoyed getting to know him this way, or allowing him to know me this way.
“Look who is curious now, Mariano Fausti.”
He shrugged. “I know how far to take curiosity. Only to you. Answer the question, Annie.”
I sighed, setting my drink down. “Yes,” I answered honestly. “How do I explain this…I am not afraid of you—this isnotwhat I meant. I mean…your eyes…ah, I do not know. Your eyes are full of hunger and thirst, and I feel the starvation and dehydration when you look at me, and I am the only source that can quench your thirst and stave off your hunger.”
“This is true.”
I shrugged, going for another piece of meat. “This is where we are, then. The truth.”
“It’s different with Matteo, though. He doesn’t look at you in that way.”
“No,” I agreed. “He looks at his wife in this way.”
