He fixed his suit, almost as if it had become too tight. “This needs to be done.”
“Says you,” I said.
“Sì, says me, your husband. How do I know this? I have come face to face with my past. I faced it.” He made a motion with his fists, as if they were two sets of bull horns clacking against each other. “Perhaps it was not an ideal situation, unpleasant things rarely are, but the truth freed me. This is why the Fausti family only deals in truth. We refuse to be held captive by lies. This means we fearniente. I fear nothing. You fear nothing. You are a Fausti, and once we arrive in Italy, you will understand what this truly means. You can face your past. It will help you confront your future.”
“I don’t need to be free. I am.” Okay, maybe that wasn’t the entire truth, and the look on my husband’s face said he knew it, though he was too much of a gentleman to point it out. “I don’t want to do this.”
“Tell me why.”
“I—” I couldn’t come up with a good reason on the fly, and the car kept rolling forward. I turned in my seat, and as a child would, crossed my arms, my husband’s hand still holding mine.
He kissed it. “My Aria Amora Bella, you stood up to one of the most ruthless men in history, my father.”
“For you,” I said.
“Are you not worth more than me?” He raised an eyebrow at me.
“That’s not what I meant, though when I think about it—I’d much rather take the heat. It feels worse to me when someone crosses you. They can talk shit about me all day long, but if someone even tries to talk about you…it’s on.”
His eyes softened, and for a moment, I felt like he might give in to me and change his mind. He sighed instead, turned forward and fixed his suit. “I will do this for you. I will do this directly beside you.”
The lights of the hotel in the distance felt like a safe zone, but the next morning, I found myself in a pretty, off-the-shoulder, cream-colored silk dress with a pleated design, a gold belt around my waist, matching pumps, sitting next to my beyond-handsome husband, who had donned a custom-made suit, being chauffeured by Donato down the block my mom lived on.
It seemed so…normal. So…suburban. Nine to five workers. Nice houses. Two-car garages—a few men washing trucks in driveways, suds running down the cement, pooling in the storm drains. Moms decorating porches for the upcoming holidays. Kids playing ball in the street. Dogs barking from somewhere in the near distance. An ice cream truck playing music while more kids dashed to it with cash in hand—probably the last time it passed before it parked for the winter.
The entire time, my husband’s eyes were on me.
My eyes were stuck on the picturesque scene.
I had to admit. In that moment, I was mad at my husband. All my anger was directed toward him. He seemed to sense this, and even though he never took my hand, or forced himself on me, I could tell by the way he was looking at me that he understood.
Maybe he’d been angry at the situation with his mamma too?
It felt like nano seconds and we were there, Donato putting the armored car in park. Rocco lifted my hand, kissed it, and before I was ready, stepped out of the SUV, fixing his suit as he made his way toward my side of the car. He held out his hand to me, and on a long sigh, I took it.
He helped me out of the SUV like I was a queen the entire neighborhood had to respect. I held my chin up high as he led me to the door, ignoring all the stares—one of the kids even knocked their cone over and started crying. The kid’s mom was trying to console her while staring at us.
My husband was the scene everywhere he went.
“Not me,” he said. “You.”
“Get out of my head, Rocco Fausti,” I whispered.
“Only God could pry me out.” His tone was all seriousness.
At the doorstep, I looked back at the SUV. Donato was watching. I almost wanted to signal for him to cause a scene so I could escape, but,one, he wouldn’t, andtwo, the front door to the house opened before Rocco could knock. His knuckles were a breath away from the warm blue door.
Harry Richards, my mom’s husband, jumped in surprise, and whatever he was about to scream at the beagle puppy yapping at the door was cut off. He was an average looking guy—average height, average build—but where he excelled was his orneriness. He was wearing a baseball cap and jersey, repping a local baseball league that he was probably the star of.
Harry glanced at Rocco, an uneasy look coming into his eyes, before he focused on me. “Aria,” he said. “We weren’t expecting you.”
“Us,” Rocco said.
Harry finally met my husband’s eyes. He had to look up to reach them. “Ah, yeah, Gabby told me Aria was getting married in Italy, but we already had plans. I mean, a free ride was okay by me, but Gabby didn’t want to disappoint the girls.”
“Disappoint the girls.” Rocco fixed his suit.
Harry wasn’t catching on. “Yeah, we took them to the theme park. We can always see pictures of a wedding.”
