I closed my eyes. “Rocco,” I breathed.
“Amora,” he almost growled back, his voice raspy and already fading into our private world. He turned my face and leaned forward so my eyes met his. “Who I am to you.”
“My husband,” I corrected, but it wasn’t the time nor place. Still. I loved saying those words to him, inside or outside of the bedroom. “What does all this mean? It means something, doesn’t it? The letters? I mean, besides my great-aunt deciding on the other brother, not Francesco, but…Ricco.Ricco.Rocco. This is eerie!”
“Sì.Ricco was a loyal brother to my grandfather.”
Gently, I eased myself from his grip and got to my feet. Facing him, I stared into his eyes. “What are younottelling me? I know you’ll give me nothing but the truth.”
He nodded and stood, towering over me. He lifted the letter. “If my family ever reads these, it will be war between us. Francesco from the pepper stand made a public bid for you. I handled it. However, the letters state that the Francesco from the earlier generation spotted your aunt first. In this generation, Francesco might go to my father and claim his ancestor was done wrong by Ricco, who, incidentally, never married or had children.”
“Done wrong?” I shouted, my voice reverberating in the empty space. “That was…I don’t even know how many years ago that was! That’s old business.” I slapped my hands together, making a finished gesture with them, like I was wiping them clean. “Besides, my great-aunt was killed in War World II. She didn’t have a chance to leave with…Ricco.”
Rocco shook his head. “Matters of the heart are not considered business, and they never grow old.”
I wanted to say,you can’t be serious!, but I wasn’t even sure if Rocco could tell a joke. He wasn’t wired that way, and it might be considered a lie to him. I went to pace, but he took me by the wrist, stopping me.
“We’ll burn the letters.” My tone was final.
“We will not.” He almost looked affronted by even the suggestion. “I am not a coward.”
“I didn’t mean that. I know you’re not. I just don’t want…trouble over this.” It felt like my mouth was trying to avoid word-mines with him.
Rocco’s family had a certain way of speaking, and I didn’t want to insult him by insinuating he was less of a man, but…this wasn’t our fight. My great-aunt wasn’t even here anymore. And it hit me—this was why my grandmother had wanted me to stay away from these men. Her sister had caught the eye of two brothers and had probably been smooshed between their chests. I couldn’t even imagine, though I had a pretty good idea after Rocco had hit Francesco hard enough that it sounded like two boulders colliding.
Shit, shit, shit.
It felt like history was beginning to repeat itself.
I was told I looked like my great-aunt.
Nonna had pulled me close and kissed me repeatedly after I had admitted this to her, but after she told me I looked like her beloved sister, I told her I was so grateful. That meant I looked like someone she had loved, andshe would love me forever because of it. She had told me, repeatedly, then and throughout the years, she loved me simply because I was me—God didn’t make replicas or mistakes.
No, I didn’t believe he did, but I also believed that the Fausti family might make a stink over this—a branch of the family that had always been hungry to wear the crown. Mia had told me as much that day on the island when we were a breath away from a fight between Rocco and Francesco.
Without a word, Rocco finished packing up the things in the unit, then grasped my hand, leading me out into the bright sunlight. He kept me by his side while he loaded the SUV, but instead of putting the box with the letters in the back with the rest of the things, he buckled it into the back seat.
We barely spoke a word to each other on the ride to the rented house in the French Quarter, and once we arrived, we got dressed for dinner. In a daze, my mind working overtime about the letters, I did my makeup, using more dramatic colors than usual, and settled on a black sweater dress that landed at mid-thigh, a thick faux leather belt to give my waist definition, and knee-high black boots. Fall hadn’t made it to New Orleans yet, but there was a breeze in the air that held a slight smoky tinge, and I was going for it.
Rocco was drinking whiskey, waiting on me, already dressed in all black—black, collared button-down, black slacks, and expensive black shoes. His eyes were almost glowing against an all-black ensemble. His wedding band too. His cologne seemed more poignant in the air for some reason.
So did his mood.
The song I had played for him on Aria Island, a country tune, played in the background of our rental, and when he saw me for the first time, he made a motion over his heart, like it was overreacting, and pulled me in, bringing me out on the balcony, the city spread out in front of us, crowds moving below us, and danced with me. He moved like a man who was comfortable with his body. Because he was—it seemed like his bones had settled confidently into his skin the moment he’d been formed.
For our date, he surprised me by bringing me to my favorite hamburger joint in the entire state, The Port. It was not that far from our place on the outskirts of the Quarter.
“Are my eyes deceiving me…” the woman behind the bar said, blinking at me like I was an apparition as I entered the dimly lit restaurant “…or is that Aria Bella I see?”
“Thandie,” I said, and at the same time, we went for each other.
She lifted the bar partition and we hugged, rocking back and forth. She pulled away from me so she could get a better lookat me. I was looking at her too. Her hair was curly, giving her a few inches in height, and her dark Black skin glistened under the tender lights, her deep, dark eyes accessing me. The sight of her made me breathe out a sigh of relief.
“You still look the same,” I whispered. “But even more beautiful somehow.”
She lifted my hands, glancing at my rings, then met my eyes again. “How many hamburgers you plan on buying this time, girl?” Then her eyes took in the over six foot tall, all muscle and sharp lines, Italian man standing behind me, his hand protectively on my shoulder.
I laughed. “Thandie, this is my husband, Rocco Fausti. Rocco, this is Thandie.”
