“The tears you bleed is an honor to me,” he continued in Italian, making it to me in three strides, using his knuckle to dry the lines of my tears. He rubbed them against his lips after, licking them, tasting my heartfelt reaction to what he had done for me. “I am the man who gets to cause them, out of romance, and dry them when they are caused by things I will kill in your honor. Anything that hurtsmine.”
He set my hand over his heart, as if he were making a vow to protect me until the day he could no longer. “The glory of what exists between us is mine alone to defend. I will kill in your honor, its honor, until I have no breath in me to do so. What exists between us will never die. It cannot. Not when it goes beyond life and breath.”
This thought overwhelmed me.
A world without this man in it.
It would be like a world without Italy. Its people, its culture, the delicious and fresh gifts it feeds its people with, the stunning views that fed beyond the stomach.
Without Wyoming. The rugged mountains, the sheer untamed wildness. The animals that persevere there. Babies being made in spring. These same offspring playing in summer. Cuddling in winter between the trees and the mountainsides that break the wind. Hannah’s sketches of the bison huffing out puffs of smoke, coated in a cold, hard winter, dark eyes glistening like newly discovered onyx.
Mariano Fausti had carved himself inside of my heart—as permanent and irrevocable as the mark an artist makes on the pages of a book. On gold and silver. On canvas. On marble that has stood the test of time and is still visible for all to see along ancient streets, in museums, but most importantly, in a place that can never die.
The soul.
My chest felt tight. My heart raced. My breaths were short—too short. He took my hand in his, bringing it to his mouth, and just like that—I could breathe again.
It was in this moment that my heart made a declaration, one it had always known, and my mind had ignored: if this man did not exist, then neither could I.
Chapter 14
Sistine
Although I tried to quiet it, the sneeze still made noise. I went to peek outside of the cottage’s kitchen, and Mariano peeked in at the same time.
We almost collided.
“Again,” he said.
I hid my grin. “I have allergies, Casanova. When I am here at this time of the year, something in the air gets to me.” Probably all the dried hay in the air.
He did not look so sure. He kept watching me, as if a sneeze might take me in the air with it, and I would disappear. He made his way deeper into the kitchen, placing a lingering kiss on my forehead. I had figured out with my third sneeze that he was being sneaky about checking my temperature, making sure I was not feverish.
He took a small step back, running a hand over my head, before he pulled my—his—sweater down further over my thick leggings. He had given me the one with his football number on it.
Mariano had been a midfielder—one of the most recognizable of his generation of footballers—until he left the sport. He had told me the number on his jersey reflected his position on the field.
His eyes roamed down to my feet.
“Ah!” I pretended mock shock, looking down with him. “Mycalzini! They have magically disappeared.”
Mariano insisted I wear thick socks on my feet. It drove him crazy that in my sleep I kicked them off. It felt as if my soles could not breathe. He would instantly replace them. I was now referring to his routine assock watch.
His eyes flew down and then back up.
My cheeky grin turned into a wide smile, and I could not stop the laughter that barreled through my chest.
“You’re fucking with me,” he said.
“Nooo.” I drew the word out, still messing with him. “My socks have truly and magically disappeared. Do you see them, Atta Girl? I do not! A sock elf must have nabbed them while I was on snack duty.”
Mariano lifted me over his shoulder and squeezed my ass cheek for being…cheeky. Pun intended.
“Hah?” Atta said, not even looking up. She was cutting snacks—cheese and peppers—and arranging them on the plate with crackers for the movies we were about to watch.
Mariano’s eyes went to Atta, and since I had his back’s view, my eyes went to Angelo. I was willing to bet Mariano and Angelo’s facial expressions reflected each other, almost as if they were both gazing through a Fausti mirror.
Atta had not been herself lately. I tried talking to her, but she gave me bullshit excuses. Angelo seemed as if he were holding pent-up tension inside and was about to blow. Not on her, but perhaps on a wall—his fists doing the explosions.
