Luca had given Brando the option to rule or not. So had Marzio. Which meant the weight of being the future king had fallen on my husband’s shoulders. Brando had resigned his position to my husband, knowing his life had been dedicated to wearing the family’s crown and earning the title “head lion.” What Rocco had craved, to love and to be loved in return, was not in the cards for him if he chose to stay with Rosaria.
He had, and ultimately, he had put the family ahead of his wants and desires.
With me in the picture?
I sighed.
His life became more complicated, and I could tell the war between love and responsibility raged inside of him.
My husband’s full heart was all I wanted. Whatever he chose to do, he had me beside him. When I accepted Rocco Fausti into my life, I accepted him fully. Yeah, he had a past with women that made me cringe, but my husband would always be faithful to me—love and touch me only, and that was something I’d put my hand on a chopping block for.
Sometimes, though, an insecurity crept out of the shadows and brought itself into the light of my mind. It was an odd voice, one I hadn’t heard before, that kept reminding me that neither of my parents wanted me.
What if one day, to sacrifice himself, my husband decided to leave me behind too? Not for another woman, but because he felt his life was too great a burden for me to bear? What if the thought he might lose me to the danger that naturally came with the name Fausti, and it began to haunt him?
Because we’d had two deaths in such a short time, and second by second, I could feel how the men around me were reacting to it.
Not well.
No one could control life or death, and these men were used to being in control. Add to that the superstition that death comes in threes, and what we had was a situation leading to disaster, I feared.
I also feared my husband would attempt to burn the world down if I wasn’t accepted and loved right away by his world. The guests I’d met at the Thanksgiving celebration were cordial, but I couldn’t deny the iciness that I felt. It was mostly people who were in awe at Rosaria and her talent.
This…this is who he replaced our lovely Rosaria Caffi with?
Yeah,me.
No one said it aloud, but I could just feel it in my bones—the rejection. I was the beginning of a new book, one where the main leading man (Rocco) had a love interest (Rosaria), and even if she came with a lot of issues, readers inevitably wanted the two to stay together, work it out.
Enter Aria Amora Bella, and the entire story changes.
Sighing, I gazed out the window, a tight feeling in my stomach.
“Amora,” my husband said, bringing our connected hands to his warm mouth. “You are hungry.”
He was feeling for my pulse. All the death around us was making him anxious.
“No.” I smiled at him. “After the Thanksgiving celebration, I don’t feel like I can eat for weeks.”
“This was yesterday.” His eyebrows were pulled down, and he had a seriously confused look on his face.
Not to eat? She must be getting sick! Call in all the medics at once!
Adding to the tightness in my stomach…we were headed to pay our respects to Mamma Maria Maria’s family after her unexpected death. Most people would think it was ridiculous, she had a heart attack, but the small group of women who had become my sisters—we felt something different. When that pig witch, as Ermanno had called her, slammed the door, it shocked Mamma Maria Maria so badly, her heart gave out. It seemed intentional. The pig witch didn’t even stop her steps after the woman went down and everyone crowded around her.
“So much food,” I said simply, rubbing my stomach.
“You are picking at food as if you were a bird.”
“Chirp.”
My husband gave me a look—it is not the time for jokes.
Jokes seemed like all I had to lighten the mood.
The thing was…I wasn’t a people pleaser, never was. It never bothered me if someone liked me or not. I liked myself. My Nonna raised me that way. She even told me one time, when the history of the “Casquette Girls” was required for school reading, that I needed to be like them. I’d been aghast that their families had sent them off to New Orleans from Paris to marry the male settlers there.
“This is because not many people know how to deal with a high-spirited woman,” she had said. “Instead of feeling sorry for them, honor them by not dimming your spirit for anyone either. You shouldn’t be difficult for no reason, we pick our battles, but when the time calls for it, you answer with your chin held high,knowing whose blood runs through your veins—all that strong Italian blood.”
