Chapter 12 Home is Where the Heart is #2
“I love you, Rocco,” I whispered. “More than any wife has ever loved a husband before.” I set my head against his heart, closing my eyes, squeezing even tighter, breathing him in.
My heart filled up, and I prayed to God it would overflow into his, like my tears sometimes overflowed with how happy he made me—just by breathing, by being mine.
He said nothing, but he returned the gesture, almost lifting me off my feet. I made a breathless noise, and even if mine came from the physical pressure he had on me, it also came from someplace deeper. A place only he could draw from.
When he knew I was having trouble catching my breath, he released the pressure but not me. He swept me off my feet and carried me to the villa. He opened the door and carried me through it, then stopped in the central hallway.
The entire place was quiet, except for the echo of the wind howling outside of the door. If I made a noise, I knew the place was so vast, it would echo.
“I love my husband,” I shouted into what seemed like the abyss, but not loud enough to pierce his eardrums. My voice did just as expected.
It echoed. I smiled, even though it was forced.
Behind it was a woman who was a lioness, who would kill even the slightest thing that could threaten her lion, her king.
I wanted this place, all places, the entire world to know the truth.
“Aria Amora Bella Fausti is home now with her husband, Rocco Piero Fausti.”
It felt as if the villa reacted. The feel of loneliness crept up my arms and touched my neck, like ivy does when it’s suffocating a structure.
Maybe some people saw it as a lover clinging on, and in controlled circumstances, wonderful, but I’d always seen ivy as something that hid, that stole breath.
The skin on my arms felt as if it turned into steel, ready to battle for control.
I wrapped my arms around my husband even tighter, reminding him that I was with him, next to him, always would be, and he would be lonely no more—not even the ivy, the bone-freezing cold, or the scorching heat could touch him again.
By the time Rocco gave me a tour of the sprawling grounds, and we made it back to the estate, I felt almost drunk—all the traveling, time differences, and emotional tolls had caught up with me.
Rocco showed me to the kitchen, which was more than impressive with all its professional-grade appliances, and we ate meals that were left for him in the refrigerator.
Apparently he had cooks, even though he told me he could make a mean pear dish with pecorino cheese and warm, oozing honey and pepper.
I told him that was amazing, and I couldn’t wait to try it, but from then on, I’d love to cook for him and I.
He was pleased by this, even lifted his hand for a high-five, which shocked me into laughter, and after we finished our plates, he showed me to the bedroom.
The first step was when it fully hit me—I was delirious. But it was a sweet delirium brought on by the proximity of my husband, his delicious scent, his heat, and lack of sleep.
We turned into each other, and I fell into his arms. Our lips came together in a dance, and our tongues followed the steps. I was so tired, I was speaking gibberish as he made quick work of my clothes, and I tore his off, a pile of them collecting on the floor.
Even during moments of wild passion, he always made sure I was respected in the smallest of ways. His clothes were on the floor, mine on top of his.
We were both wild with want, as if we hadn’t touched in centuries.
We hadn’t even made it to the bedroom yet.
Our breaths were coming out in pants, and when his mouth slid down my chin, my neck, his tongue caressing my collarbone, slipping down between my breasts, to take each nipple in his warm mouth, his tongue caressing the sensitive peaks, I cried out.
The familiar pressure of an orgasm was beginning to take hold of me.
“So sensitive to me,” he whispered against my skin. And then his mouth traveled further south, and when his tongue licked my thighs, and then his face came between my legs…I went off like a firework.
He drank down the cry from my mouth as he entered me on a thrust that shook us both to our core. He stilled, his head tilting back, absorbing the feeling, as much as I was—he felt so right inside of me, I had no clue how I’d lived without him for so long. My life was pathetic without him in it.
He began to move inside of me, and my hands, my soul, kept pulling him closer, wishing for him to go so deep inside of me, I’d never be able to find myself again, unless it was through him.
I couldn’t explain the feeling in mere words. It overtook me. It overtook him. And the only sense to be made was that we were connected.
He slid out of me, and coming back achingly slow, touched me somewhere deep inside that made me whimper. His mouth came over mine, as if he was almost starving for the pleasurable noises escaping my mouth.
Once was not enough. With his seed wetting my thighs, he carried me into the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him. He set me down on the bed, and my arms reached out to him, and then we were tangling in the sheets, lost to the world.
Until the sound of a door slamming snapped Rocco back into the real world. A woman was screaming for him. It sounded like she was rushing up the stairs by the cadence of her footsteps. She was wearing heels. I could tell by the punctuated tap, tap, tap as she made her way closer to our room.
Rocco grabbed for my robe, going to dress me.
“I can dress myself,” I said, a tremble underneath my skin from the unexpected visitor who was still shouting my husband’s name, taking my robe from him and securing it in record time. I nodded toward him. “You should get dressed.”
He did, in record time, beginning with his pants. A second after his shirt was on, a whirlwind of a woman came through the bedroom door. It was probably my imagination, but it seemed like her sheer black dress and long, raven hair blew behind her as she made her dramatic entrance into our bedroom.
She looked at Rocco, then at me, and it was then that I noticed black mascara tracks down her perfect cheeks.
Her lips were painted a siren red, but it seemed like maybe she had been drinking, and the color was somewhat smeared off.
It stained from her lips to her chin. I was pretty sure I wore that exact same shade from time to time.
She lifted her thin hand, her elegant finger pointing at me, her nails the same color as her lips, and said in a sharp voice, “Get out of my husband’s bed and out of his house right now, you little bitch.
Out!” She clapped at me, speaking in Italian so fast, my head almost spun trying to keep up with her.
My eyes went instantly to my husband. His eyes had widened a bit before he turned cold and hard.
My mind ordered my body, and I practically flew. I tackled her, and we both went down to the floor.
Lies.
She told nothing but lies.
And the way she’d spoken to me?
NO.
“Rocco!” she was screeching, keeping her hands up to protect her face from my fists. I wasn’t a slapper. If things were going to go down this way, I was using all the strength I had, and it was going to come out through my fists.
I was about to hit her again when I caught air, my husband’s arm around my waist the only force keeping me from making contact again.
I wasn’t all that wild with fury, punching the air and kicking my feet like a kid, but I was breathing heavy.
My husband set me on the bed, then stood in front of me, like he was going to protect me from her.
The woman was still on the floor, sitting up, wiping her lip.
The blood-red color of her lips merged with the blood on her lip.
I had split it open. Let her speak lies again about my husband being married to her.
I’d have her tongue. As simple as that. I crossed my arms over my chest and stuck my chin up, refusing to stop staring at her.
She stared back, then looked at Rocco.
“Tell her to leave, Rocco,” she whispered.
He told her to get up in Italian. The cold tone of his voice had her blinking at him before she used her hands to rise. Her eyes were wider, shock clearly written on her face. It was probably written on mine too. I recognized her in that moment.
Monica Attigliano.
She was considered, beyond Hollywood standards, to be one of the most beautiful women in the world. No wonder I’d recognized the color of lipstick she wore. It was her signature shade, and she modeled it in almost every high-end store that sold the brand.
“You will leave,” he said to her. “You have disrespected my wife.”
“Ah,” she breathed out. “Your wife. I did not know.”
“You did not bother to knock.”
She looked down for a moment. “I…yes, I will leave.”
She started for the door, and he followed her, making sure she was leaving. I followed my husband, standing at the top of the stairs, looking down. I noticed that he was keeping his distance from her. The muscle in his jaw ticked. The muscles in his arms trembled.
She stopped at the door, hesitating. He opened it. She looked him in the eyes, her chin rising, her posture already taking on shape—the shape of a woman who has always known that she’s beautiful, and it made her confident.
“I have just realized that your father will never want me. I thought you and I could make each other happy. We could share what we once did. It would be enough.”
“We shared nothing but a physical relationship.”
She grinned at him, but her eyes filled up with tears.
“What did I tell you, ah? All those years ago, when you married the wretched Caffi?
You needed to be ruined. You needed a woman who ran hotter than the sun, with eyes different from mine, to ruin the heart in your chest. Ruin it for all others.
Reduce it to her size—the size that fit her perfectly.
And when you think of me, and think of the times we shared, you will go—who was that woman again?
Then you will remember, because I am not her, and you will go… I know the difference. I know now!
“A body is a body, but the heart of your lover…it will beat only for her. You deserve a woman who would cut your balls off for even thinking about my bed again. You deserve a woman who would tear another woman’s hair out if she dared to touch you.
” She touched her lip, then smiled. “And you? You would kill in her honor. Live in her honor. Never touch another in her honor. You deserve that, Rocco. I see you have found it.” She lifted her hand, about to rest it against his cheek, then thought better of it when he took a step out of her reach.
She looked up at me. “You are no longer homeless, Rocco Fausti.” She brought her hand to her heart.
“My heart is full for you. I do not believe I will even see you in dreams any longer.”
With those words, she left in a black flurry of sheer clothes, raven silk hair, and a perfume that I knew would probably linger for days. Rocco closed the door after her, locking it, and then turned around and looked up at me.
I sighed, because I knew. She was the first of many I’d have to fight. I didn’t have it in me to ask any questions—I only knew that Rosaria Caffi might’ve not graced this property, but other women had, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
No.
The truth cut through the fog.
I felt I needed a new home with my husband, where only the memories of him and I would remain.
Maybe my husband was reading my mind, or the look on my face, but he waited downstairs, his eyes on mine.
His lids were naturally downturned a bit, and the look in his eyes seemed…
pained. It broke my heart. He had no idea what kind of hell I was going to put him through for this.
I sighed again, though it released no pressure.
But no past lover would come between my husband and me.
I refused to allow a ghost to. Hot-blooded women were no issue for me. Not unless they crossed a line.
“Rocco,” I whispered. “Let’s get back to bed.”
He blinked hard once, and with a nod, met me upstairs. He stared down at me, and when he ran his finger down my face, I closed my eyes. He lifted me off my feet, took me to bed, and where we’d left off, we picked up, even more passionate than before.