Rocco stepped over her, and after she recited their address to the operator, and told the dispatcher my husband had attackedhers, my husband said in a clear, cold, chilling voice, “You hurt mine, I hurt yours.”
Taking my hand, kissing it, he whispered, “my heart, my entire heart,my life,” and we left, Donato driving straight to the private airport where we took off for Italy.
I didn’t look back.
Chapter 12
Home is Where the Heart is
Aria Amora
Afast, sexy red car with dark tinted windows waited for Rocco and me at the airport. Painted on the lower side of the driver’s door was the Fausti emblem. I wondered for a second if the lion was done in real gold and the rosary in real silver.
A crisp wind blew, and I turned my face toward it. My hair rustled behind me as autumn leaves trembled around my feet. My long, caramel-colored trench coat took off with my hair, and I secured the belt around my waist before I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent of the smoky air.
The colors of fall were all around me, and I couldn’t wait for Rocco to open my door, help me inside the car, and get racing so I could see more of my new home.
Yes, home.
I’d always consider New Orleans home, but…I knew the moment I stepped off the plane, my husband’s hand in mine, that his home in Tuscany would be my forever home from that point forward. I knew how much he loved Tuscany, his winery, and maybe because I was in love with how much he loved it, it already felt like home to me too.
The feeling went past bone.
It was like the first time my fingers touched the keys to write our love story, before I’d ever met him. The first time my eyes met Rocco’s. The first time I saw my wedding dress, saw him as my husband.
When you know, you know, and I knew Tuscany was going to be the new background to our love story. A place we would live in and love for years to come. A place we would return to after visiting other places, and even though we’d enjoy our time, we’d be glad to be home—sleeping in our bed, our own pillows and blankets, cooking in our kitchen, watching as the seasons changed from the many windows.
Call it a hunch, but I could already picture our home in the Tuscan hills.
Rocco pulled me in by the belt around my waist, kissing me passionately on the lips, before he helped me into the car. Pisolino jumped in the back seat, and Rocco closed the door.
My eyes instinctively followed the man fixing his suit as he made his way to the driver’s side door. It lifted and he slipped inside, then closed with a wave of his hand. The interior was filled with the toasted scent of pumpkin leaves and emerald gourds, his rich cologne and hair products, and his power…yes, to me, power had a scent, and it clung to Rocco Fausti like it was part of his natural makeup.
I imagined it was all that beautiful, truthful, courageous blood pumping through his veins.
Sighing, I turned away from the real scenery, my husband, and stared out the window. He had to be traveling at an obscene speed around twists and turns that snaked in the hills, but I was still catching glimpses of the season turning hillsides, some full of terracotta leaves and pastel grass, and some that reminded me of oatmeal, pink apples, cinnamon, and cream.
Lifting my hands, I admired the nail job Violet had done. After the concert, she said she wasn’t ready to stop partying, so…we all went shopping at an all-night pharmacy for nail polish. She gave us all manicures and pedicures while the men sat outside and smoked cigars and drank whiskey. I went with a color like ripe figs, more on the purple side of the color wheel. I was in my feminine era, and the color suited me and the new season upon us.
Rocco pressed a button on the steering wheel, and the dash lit up before a seductive female voice whispered, “When I Fall in Love,” and we were serenaded by Nat King Cole. She almost purred it out. I lifted an eyebrow at Rocco and he grinned, lifting my hand to his mouth, as the romantic song began to serenade us.
Some of the faded green hills tilted in the distance, and rows and rows of amber-colored grape leaves rustled with the Tuscana wind. Tall but thin cypress trees shimmered with the oncoming cold. In the distance, some near and some far, were stone villas, some sand colored, some chestnut colored, with all different colored shutters. They had probably been standing since Medieval times.
I rolled my window down when I heard a church bell ringing. The sound of it echoed for what seemed like miles, and I closed my eyes, squeezing my husband’s hand.
It felt like a welcome home gesture.
I took a deep breath in, and it easily flowed out of my mouth.
No weight to it.
No labored breathing.
No trembling inside of my chest.
The world,myworld, just felt…right, at least for that one moment in time.
It was a foreign feeling that I instantly fell into, like a soft cloud at my back. Even though I loved my grandparents with all I had, I never truly had a complete moment where the world justseemed…perfect. Maybe because I had to experience Rocco and his love to have the piece that completed it all for me.
