After a few moments had passed, he cleaned me and then set my dress to rights. I felt entirely complete—completely satisfied,as if all my needs were beyond met, and life was a mauve-colored dream.
I was barely able to walk, so he picked me up and carried me out of the bathroom—the dress that had been sent over for me, from a world-renowned Italian designer, still on the bed.
The theatre Rocco took me to was extremely old and very romantic. The people who lingered around him were lovers of the opera, and maybe because the opera could be very dramatic, sometimes chilling and cutting with its voices and intensity, I found they loved my husband the same, or even more.
Maybe because in their eyes, he was still attached to the darling of their eyes, Rosaria Caffi.
To me, they were polite, but curt and to the point.
It was December, the weather as chilled as my presence among them, and after Rocco slid the fancy coat he’d bought for me off my shoulders, the somewhat polite masks slipped, and I could see how they judged me. My dress was off the rack, didn’t have a fancy name brand or price tag attached to it, and was made of material they would probably consider itchy.
To sum up the judgement, my dress was far below their standards.
I kept my chin high, remembering the words Nonna had spoken to me, feeling at that moment the steel Mari had reminded me of. If they shattered me, they would ultimately get to my husband.
If my hand wasn’t to his mouth, placing firm kisses to remind me we were together, his hand was on me somewhere. When we’d first arrived, he worked the room as he usually did, butafter my jacket, or mask, had been removed, the burning candles couldn’t touch the cold—from him; from them.
It only grew worse when questions were asked about my profession—did I come from a well-known family in Italy?
No, I had answered,butI am Italian. I gave them family names. Spoke of what I knew about them, what Aunt Lola, God bless her soul, had told me. When Rocco had said I was an author, as proud as he could be, they asked questions about my “works.” I only had one “work” to speak of, and even though it had received some attention, none of them had heard of it.
Usually when my husband navigated to his seat, people orbited around him, eager to get close to the next king of Italy, but when we walked arm and arm to our seats in the theatre, it was only the two of us.
“Healed,” he said to me, kissing my hand. “Even with hundreds of them surrounding me, I was always alone. You, you make me whole.”
His words made me feel whole, and I knew that together, we had this.
I’d never been to the opera before, and I’d be the first one to admit that I hadn’t wanted to go, hadn’t wanted to enjoy it. The very thought of it brought Rosaria Caffi to life for me, and I wanted her to stay where she was. So, I hated to admit that I was hypnotized by it. I was even moved to tears.
Rocco gently dried them, and then after he wiped his lips, he kissed my cheek softly. I knew it was his way of thanking me for attending with him. He knew how I felt about the opera—the experience had been tarnished for me before I even had it.
I could make it through, though, and I kept reminding myself that the prima donnas and divas were not Rosaria Caffi. It wasn’t fair for me to associate them with her, but after the performance was over, and we visited with a few of the cast backstage, I noticed the way the main singer was looking at my husband.Either she had had a taste and wanted more, or she was craving a first hit. I wrapped my arm around his tighter, pulling him closer.
He gave me a side-eye glance, then and only then noticing her. Or he had before and had dismissed her. When she didn’t get the reaction she wanted, she turned in a whirl of sheer material and slammed her door. I always thought the drama would be saved for the stage, but a few of her groupies rushed into her room, probably to comfort her.
Sighing, I knew this was just the beginning of a lifelong struggle. Being married to a Fausti, just for the wanton women alone, was not for the fainthearted. After so many years of being married to men of the blood, Maggie Beautiful, Scarlett, Carmen, and Juliette all had complaints about the number of women who lusted after their men. All of them agreed that time didn’t lessen their appeal; if anything, it made them more attractive.
If Luca was anything to go on…agreed.
What surprised me the most, though, was how the attention seemed to bother Scarlett the most. I almost wondered if Brando had done something to double cross her, but she must have sensed the path my thoughts were taking and shook her head.
“Daddy issues,” she had said to me. “My dad was always known for being a womanizer and a cheat, and that in turn made me not trust. Even after all these years, I still think the floor beneath my feet is shaking, even though it’s as steady as it’s always been. You can understand this…there is no me without my husband, and it’s frightening for someone else to have that much power, even after all these years.”
Completely, I could understand that. Even if I didn’t share in her issues, I shared her sentiment and feeling. I had my own with being left, but in a different way.
The same, though?
The love my husband and I shared was a once in a lifetime love. I’d known all my life what I wanted, and I waited for it. When the time came to find it, I claimed it. I’d never be the same, and me without Rocco, or Rocco without me… even the thought made me hold him closer as we left the theater arm in arm.
The cold slap of the air made me suck in a breath, and I shivered. Rocco pulled me closer for a moment, rubbing my back and arms.
“I’m all right,” I whispered. It wasn’t even the actual cold that got to me. It was the thought of ever losing him. It made me feel afraid and desperate, and it stole my breath.
Uncle Tito and Aunt Lola came to mind, and in that situation, I would want to be Aunt Lola. Maybe that was one of the main reasons all the men were on edge and paranoid. All the women were thinking how she had gotten to go first, and that was a mercy. The men were looking at Uncle Tito, and for them, it was hell.
Rocco brought me closer and kissed my forehead. “Let us go home,” he whispered, his voice rough.
I closed my eyes and nodded.
