“I’d say so,” my sister whispered, looking around, her eyes frantic too.
“Mia,” Rio said, her name holding a question mark at the end.
My sister’s eyes were too far in the distance.
“Mia,” I repeated, and she knew I wasn’t fucking around.
She nodded. “We need to get out of here. I don’t have a good feeling about this. I didn’t feel it before, but, ah, I feel it now.”
We sheltered the women as we left—no place feeling safe until we were in our cars and headed in another direction.
Chapter 7
Sistine
Iwas not sure what my father was the angriest at—that a crazed man had killed another man with an arrow because he was obsessed with the idea of me, or that Mariano Fausti had brought me home. Or maybe it was because my sister was throwing a fit about the Casanova Prince escorting me to the palazzo.
She had accused me of blocking him from getting to her. I was a pity case. Why would he ever look past her for me?Absurd!He felt guilty for going after her when I so clearly had feelings for him. This she said to me when the prince had excused himself from the room to take a call.
“I do not talk to him first.”This from me.
A growl that would scare monsters away.This from the leader of monsters, also known as Capri Capella.
“Sistine!”This from my father.“Stop antagonizing your sister.”
My entire body seized, though I had learned how to conceal it with a neutral stance. I refused to give her a reaction, which drove her crazier than she already was.
I was sitting crossed-legged on the chair in my father’s office, except one leg dangled and swung. An easy sway. I grinned at her.
Capri pointed at me, as if she was pointing out a villain. “She is doing it again!”
What made the situation reach this level of hysteria? My family had no clue Mariano was going to bring me home. My sister had not spent hours on her image to prepare for him. It was late and she had a green mask on her face. Her eyes had turned cartoonish and almost popped out of her head when she saw him.
I grinned thinking about it. I would never forget it. It would become a core memory. Someone had caused Capri Capella discomfort on my behalf. Even if inadvertently.
When she screeched and ran upstairs, a smile I had never known had appeared on my face. It was warm and satisfying. This was when I realized I preferred retribution served hot.
When she came back down, in record time, she still had green specks left on her face. It was not the right time to point out that her true skin—snake—was showing through. But the thought thrilled me just the same.
At the look on my face, Mariano had lifted his thick eyebrows at me. I only grinned harder and kept my eyes forward. When I finally met his eyes again, he matched my grin.
My sister stomped her foot so hard, it made the ancient wooden slats beneath her feet tremble. Mariano looked at her, and she only shrugged and said, “Il insetto.” She had blamed her tantrum on abug.
“Dinner for you,” I said. She was a snake, after all. Perhaps she would save it for later, when Mariano left, and she felt comfortable stuffing her face.
She gave me the meanest look. I only smiled at her.
Mariano reentered the scene and Papà excused us, his daughters, from his office, and invited Mariano to speak to him privately. “Invited” stretched it a bit. He did not like the involvement of the prince of the Fausti family in our family’s issue. And from what I could tell, Mariano had placed himself in the center of it and refused to remove himself. Perhaps because he felt he had brought the crazed man, Iggy as he called him, into my life.
In all fairness, he might have planted the bitter seed, but I was the one who had tried to chop the quick-growing weed down by shooting it,er, him.
What kind of man enjoys getting shot at? Furthermore, what kind of man gets turned on by it? It was not like I was batting my eyelashes at him and waving seductively while I pulled the trigger.
It would be easier to admit I did it to protect our family name. We had clientele who depended on us to protect what they considered valuable. This is true. Perhaps my rapid response was partially due to my job. However, the truth of the matter was:
Mariano Leone Fausti felt valuable to me.
He was smug, conceded, and vain—all the descriptive words to describe someone who thought very highly of themselves (probably because everyone else did as well)—and it was so infuriating, I could wrap my hands around his throat and choke him! But the oddest thing…I felt as if I was the only one who had the right to do such a thing.
