In the distance, sirens blared.
Most of the people in the bar got the fuck out of dodge. We never ran from consequences. Dodged them, yeah, but run? Nah. Especially not with Luca Fausti around, in a good mood or fucking not. The police never showed. It seemed like they weregoing to another call. I picked up my wife and flung her over my shoulder, carrying her cavemen style out of the bar.
“Fuck,” I snapped, giving her a nicewhackon her juicy ass. Later, I was going to fucking bite it. “I can’t take you anywhere.”
She exploded with laughter and slapped my ass.
Fuck me sideways. My wife wasn’t even drinking.
I sighed, and it did nothing to lessen the pressure in my chest.
Mitch was right.
I was in so much fucking trouble.
As usual when it came to my wife, I didn’t know if I wanted to fucking grin or rub my chest.
Chapter 55
Sistine
Ihad begun to wonder if smiling could be considered a permanent disorder. Not to mention the fact that, paired with dreamy eyes, it made most people look like psychopaths, especially in ordinary situations.
Or people who were inflicted by the smiling disorder had been hit by the thunderbolt of love.
I was in the latter group.
I had been struck by a thunderbolt named Mariano Leone Fausti, who could cause me to be as spicy as he could sweet. One minute I wanted to strangle his tough Fausti throat while hitting him in his hard Fausti head, and the next, I wanted to heal him.
At all times—I wanted to make love to him.
My eyes cut to his on the plane back to Italy. We were enroute to Tuscany first before we went home to Grosseto. My husband was eager to have the meeting with his grandfather and Lev. The favor I had asked of him seemed to be keeping him contained, at least for the moment.
Although the thought of Italy and all it entailed made me feel as if an elephant sat on my chest and my throat was tight, we were miles above the world, and I had learned from my husbandto take the time to relax. He was working at his computer, and I watched him, which was no work at all.
Somehow.
Someway.
Over the course of our time in Louisiana, he had become more stunning to me.
This happened quite a bit. No matter where we were, what we were doing, we were constantly getting to know each other. This thrilled me to my core. There was so much to learn about my husband, things I had yet to discover. And somehow, I knew, for the rest of my life I would hunger to keep getting to know him. I had accepted this path the moment I made vows to him.
My husband had confided in me his plans about getting to know me forever as well. He had said his great-uncle, the great and wise doctor, Tito Sala, had once told him that women were butterflies, their lives a constant metamorphosis of change.
Mariano had added that, if women were butterflies, then men should become chameleons. The basis of who they were would stay the same—a rock is always a rock—but their acceptance of their wives during each season of her life should change colors to reflect hers as well. This way, both husband and wife kept close in the walk of life together.
I had a feelingProzioTito would love this new addition.
Without looking up from his computer, he said, “Tell me.” Then he looked at me. He had known the entire time that my eyes were on him, but he was proving to me that even when he was not looking at me, he knew where I was, always.
These subtle gestures were the language of the Fausti family.Sì, the men of the blood could be explosive, but other times, if you slack on their metaphors, you lose out on the core of who they were.
My husband.
I sighed.
He was skilled at subtle gestures and just as talented with reading who I was. The Mustang, for instance. I could not stop smiling about it. I could not stop smiling over the bar fight. Mariano did not have to, but he had gone with it. All the men had. I believed because the men knew we needed the release.
