Even if none of the above had been in motion, my eyes would be on my wife, or my heart would not stay in my chest. My father might as well steal it.
I also stood for another reason. A reason that had me on edge. It was not usually I who pushed my father to his limits, and in a way that walked the line between respect and disrespect. It was myfratello,Brando Piero Fausti, who did this. My father andfratellohad a different relationship than my father and I had.
Brando was free to make his own choices in life. It had been established since the beginning of my time that I would not. I was born to be a Fausti and all that entailed. I was created to be sacrificed to our rules and to be owned by the blood that ran through my veins.
This was why, on a hospital bed in Venezia, myfratellohad stood over me, taking my hand, and in front of our father, had relinquished his right to rule to me.
By the power vested in our grandfather, Marzio Piero Fausti, my father could not stop his decree before death, that my brother, Brando Piero Fausti, was free to make his own decisions in respect to our family.
In this decree, my grandfather had punished my father for all he had put the family through for love.
Was it dramatic?
Sì, my grandfather could respect how fate had played out on the stage of life; however, this punishment had been and still was devastating to Luca Leone Fausti. It meant my brother made his own decisions regarding the one thing our family valued most, which encompassed God, loyalty, and respect, and together became the family itself. Love fit into the lines, was every line, if it walked hand in hand with the ruthless blood in our veins.
Myfratellonever aspired to be king, or even a major figure in ourfamiglia; however, his story played out in the stage of life and won an award for being one of the most dramatic. I played an important role in his story. I, too, was moved by the love he shared with his wife and vowed to protect it with my life.
In turn, their love was the teacher who showed me what love truly was and how sacred it was. It was not as rare as everyone assumed it to be.
However, my story played out as a badly written opera that had stellar performances. Mainly, Rosaria Caffi with her voice made of frozen barbs. Rarely did she even come to my thoughts, but to complete my picture, the first half of my life had to play out.
All this to say, after my wife entered my life, I knew without a doubt I would give up my position in the family if it meant I kept her for the rest of my life.
Perhaps my father sensed this; perhaps he knew all along that I would trade duty for love. However, before, if I had broken a rule by stepping out of line, going to the window out of turn, he would have snarled at me and punished me.
As he watched me in that moment, it was almost satisfaction in his eyes. As if me challenging him was part of his plan.
This did not sit right in the pit of my stomach. I knew our ways down to the smallest of offenses, and I made it my business to know many of our family members, from top to bottom, to know all of Italia and how far and wide our reach spanned—how long our history stretched.
Most of all, I knew the man I called father.
His recent behavior was not the norm.
Could it have been because I would be leading the family soon, and he was watching what type of king I would be?
Perhaps, but it was not.
I knew my father, and according to him, he knew me better than I knew him. He created me.
My wife looked back at me. She was taking a walk with Uncle Tito. He had not left his home since my aunt’s passing. I believed one of the reasons he did not ask my father to take his life was because he knew my nephew would challenge my father. Although Marciano was one of the strongest Fausti men I had ever seen, my father was stronger. He would not allow Marciano to challenge him and step away with his legs, or his life.
Uncle Tito had a special bond with my nephew, however; so did my aunt. If my uncle thought in any way putting Marciano at odds with the King Lion would have upset my aunt, my uncle would not do it.
This is the power of a woman’s love.
Just then, when I thought of my uncle asking my father to end his life after his wife passed, I turned to my father. His eyes were on mine, and although the news of Margarita’s health had been fair, I wondered if her request of him was still weighing on his mind.
When my great-aunt had passed, my father had held up three fingers, and then brought one down. When Mamma Maria Maria passed, he did the same, except he brought two down.
That left one more.
One more death awaited us.
If he considered what his wife asked of him, usually a request asked on the death bed, as a sign of things to come…
His eyes were still on mine. His face a solid mask. Behind his eyes, however, it almost seemed as if a fire burned.
“It is time,” he said to me, but it was Donato who fixed his suit and left the room to walk Francesco and his family to my office.
