Chapter 26 #2
My eyes rose even higher. He had a strong chin, a pronounced jaw, and an extremely angular face.
His skin was taut over every strong bone, giving his face so much dimension.
He had a prominent nasal bridge, but his nose was narrow and sharp.
He had dark, heavy eyebrows over those hypnotizing sea-green eyes.
The color seemed like it was taken straight from the Mediterranean, maybe a sample color God had been trying out on the water before He decided to use it.
As if to keep the wildness of the sea contained, black rings encircled Rocco’s irises.
His lids drooped slightly. His eyelashes were black and full.
His skin was that beautiful olive color—undertones of green and gold that complimented the color of his eyes.
His hair was black—the color of the night sky—but it seemed like it was made from the finest silk and silver.
A few streaks of the latter color mixed in around his temples.
The overall effect of him was masculine and intense and passionate.
He was perfect.
Perfect, but with faults, which made him even more stunning in my opinion.
His tongue reached out, wetting his bottom lip, and I was instantly brought out of the moment, hypnotized again by a flood of memories rushing through not only my mind, but my body, at what his tongue could do to me.
His body?
I was convinced it had been carved out of flesh-colored marble.
His sharp nose came to my neck, breathing me in while he held me steady in front of the mirror.
My waist had disappeared when his arm wrapped around me and pulled me close—he was hard, all over.
My hand went straight for his left one, feeling a surge of adrenaline at the ring that glinted in the candlelight, knowing it was a symbol that meant he was all mine.
“Tell me, Amora,” he whispered against my pulse. “Tell me who you belong to.”
“You,” I barely got out. I looked drunk too. Even my words were slurred.
He nodded once, as if that was the end of the story—the ending he’d always wanted. But we both knew there was so much more to our book.
So much more yet to come.
His hands lifted my dress, his caress warm and confident against my pebbled skin.
My breath faltered out, and my eyes slowly closed.
My body was ready for him, and as he kept me facing the mirror, I felt more than heard him take his cock out of his pants.
He rubbed himself along my ass before he did the same between my legs.
I moaned, my body tilting forward by instinct.
Always by instinct with him.
I gasped and my hands reached out to hold his arms when he entered me in a thrust so delicious, I lost my breath. He began to move inside of me as if he was a man possessed.
Just the feel of him, and not only his cock, drove me higher and higher as he touched every sensitive nerve deep inside of me.
It wasn’t his pace or how thick he was, but the sheer emotional connection we shared.
It worked our bodies in tandem, and when he read the signs of my body, he ordered me to come to him, and come to him I did, as he came to me.
The moments between us weren’t wild, or rough, or even erotic, but to me, there was something wild about our attraction that couldn’t be tamed. And the more we were together, the stronger our bond was becoming. I wasn’t sure how much stronger it could get, but in this, and in love, it was.
He was tender with me, but my legs trembled and shook with the sheer power of who he was to me and what he could do to me, not only my body, but my heart. He placed a soft kiss on my shoulder, his eyes closed, his breathing even and steady.
After a few moments had passed, he cleaned me and then set my dress to rights. I felt entirely complete—completely satisfied, as if all my needs were beyond met, and life was a mauve-colored dream.
I was barely able to walk, so he picked me up and carried me out of the bathroom—the dress that had been sent over for me, from a world-renowned Italian designer, still on the bed.
The theatre Rocco took me to was extremely old and very romantic. The people who lingered around him were lovers of the opera, and maybe because the opera could be very dramatic, sometimes chilling and cutting with its voices and intensity, I found they loved my husband the same, or even more.
Maybe because in their eyes, he was still attached to the darling of their eyes, Rosaria Caffi.
To me, they were polite, but curt and to the point.
It was December, the weather as chilled as my presence among them, and after Rocco slid the fancy coat he’d bought for me off my shoulders, the somewhat polite masks slipped, and I could see how they judged me.
My dress was off the rack, didn’t have a fancy name brand or price tag attached to it, and was made of material they would probably consider itchy.
To sum up the judgement, my dress was far below their standards.
I kept my chin high, remembering the words Nonna had spoken to me, feeling at that moment the steel Mari had reminded me of. If they shattered me, they would ultimately get to my husband.
If my hand wasn’t to his mouth, placing firm kisses to remind me we were together, his hand was on me somewhere. When we’d first arrived, he worked the room as he usually did, but after my jacket, or mask, had been removed, the burning candles couldn’t touch the cold—from him; from them.
It only grew worse when questions were asked about my profession—did I come from a well-known family in Italy?
No, I had answered, but I am Italian. I gave them family names.
Spoke of what I knew about them, what Aunt Lola, God bless her soul, had told me.
When Rocco had said I was an author, as proud as he could be, they asked questions about my “works.” I only had one “work” to speak of, and even though it had received some attention, none of them had heard of it.
Usually when my husband navigated to his seat, people orbited around him, eager to get close to the next king of Italy, but when we walked arm and arm to our seats in the theatre, it was only the two of us.
“Healed,” he said to me, kissing my hand. “Even with hundreds of them surrounding me, I was always alone. You, you make me whole.”
His words made me feel whole, and I knew that together, we had this.
I’d never been to the opera before, and I’d be the first one to admit that I hadn’t wanted to go, hadn’t wanted to enjoy it.
The very thought of it brought Rosaria Caffi to life for me, and I wanted her to stay where she was.
So, I hated to admit that I was hypnotized by it. I was even moved to tears.
Rocco gently dried them, and then after he wiped his lips, he kissed my cheek softly. I knew it was his way of thanking me for attending with him. He knew how I felt about the opera—the experience had been tarnished for me before I even had it.
I could make it through, though, and I kept reminding myself that the prima donnas and divas were not Rosaria Caffi.
It wasn’t fair for me to associate them with her, but after the performance was over, and we visited with a few of the cast backstage, I noticed the way the main singer was looking at my husband.
Either she had had a taste and wanted more, or she was craving a first hit.
I wrapped my arm around his tighter, pulling him closer.
He gave me a side-eye glance, then and only then noticing her.
Or he had before and had dismissed her. When she didn’t get the reaction she wanted, she turned in a whirl of sheer material and slammed her door.
I always thought the drama would be saved for the stage, but a few of her groupies rushed into her room, probably to comfort her.
Sighing, I knew this was just the beginning of a lifelong struggle.
Being married to a Fausti, just for the wanton women alone, was not for the fainthearted.
After so many years of being married to men of the blood, Maggie Beautiful, Scarlett, Carmen, and Juliette all had complaints about the number of women who lusted after their men.
All of them agreed that time didn’t lessen their appeal; if anything, it made them more attractive.
If Luca was anything to go on…agreed.
What surprised me the most, though, was how the attention seemed to bother Scarlett the most. I almost wondered if Brando had done something to double cross her, but she must have sensed the path my thoughts were taking and shook her head.
“Daddy issues,” she had said to me. “My dad was always known for being a womanizer and a cheat, and that in turn made me not trust. Even after all these years, I still think the floor beneath my feet is shaking, even though it’s as steady as it’s always been.
You can understand this…there is no me without my husband, and it’s frightening for someone else to have that much power, even after all these years. ”
Completely, I could understand that. Even if I didn’t share in her issues, I shared her sentiment and feeling. I had my own with being left, but in a different way.
The same, though?
The love my husband and I shared was a once in a lifetime love.
I’d known all my life what I wanted, and I waited for it.
When the time came to find it, I claimed it.
I’d never be the same, and me without Rocco, or Rocco without me…
even the thought made me hold him closer as we left the theater arm in arm.
The cold slap of the air made me suck in a breath, and I shivered. Rocco pulled me closer for a moment, rubbing my back and arms.
“I’m all right,” I whispered. It wasn’t even the actual cold that got to me. It was the thought of ever losing him. It made me feel afraid and desperate, and it stole my breath.
Uncle Tito and Aunt Lola came to mind, and in that situation, I would want to be Aunt Lola.
Maybe that was one of the main reasons all the men were on edge and paranoid.
All the women were thinking how she had gotten to go first, and that was a mercy.
The men were looking at Uncle Tito, and for them, it was hell.
Rocco brought me closer and kissed my forehead. “Let us go home,” he whispered, his voice rough.
I closed my eyes and nodded.
A Fausti armored SUV waited in front of the theater, smoke escaping its tail pipe like it was a chimney.
I was about to ask Rocco if he wanted me to make a late dinner, something warm and comforting, and after, we could climb into bed and watch a movie or just talk for a while.
We could talk about our place in Piemonte, or where else we would travel in Italy, more villages we could find.
I wanted to know Italy like he did, but his eyes were narrowed on a group of people who had formed two lines along the walkway.
The lines were long enough to come close to reaching the SUV.
Maybe because I was so focused on getting home, when the first piece of rotten fruit hit me, I had no idea what it was.
An old banana peel. It smelled like it had been in a crate too long and was as black as the night.
The fermented juices slid along my face, and it was my husband who removed it, and then he went to charge into the crowd.
The crowd had a difference of opinion and moved fast.
Fast flying decayed fruit was being hurled at me. I turned my body some, lifting my arms to my face. I wasn’t sure what my leg was doing, but it was lifted in a sideways slant, almost to cover my stomach, trying to protect me too.
My husband was in front of me, shielding me with his body, while the crowd started to scream.
Most of it was in Italian, but some of it made it to my ears sharp and clear: This!
This instead of our queen! You killed her!
You killed her! I wasn’t sure if they were accusing me of killing Rosaria or Rocco.
You look like a child in a ruffled dress! You are no queen! You are his princess!
The soldiers from the SUV began to block the path the chanters had created, and even so, the fruit was still finding its way toward us. Rocco kept me close as we rushed toward the SUV, two men in suits, including Ermanno’s father, waiting by the door.
Close enough, the door opened and Rocco slid me inside, closing the door behind him. I knocked on the window, but he was so enraged, he was charging toward the crowd. The interior smelled like ice and manly cologne, and I was starting to flood it with the smell of rotten dumpster trash.
I began to beat even harder when the scent of blood made it to my nose. Pandemonium had broken out, and my husband was beating on a man outside of the window. I hit harder, screaming for him to stop, and suddenly, he did.
He was breathing heavy, allowing the still flying fruit to hit his back, and then he took deliberate steps toward the SUV, like he wasn’t going to run for no man or woman, and Giovanni opened the SUV door again. I heard the livid chanting until the door closed.
My husband’s eyes were dilated, all the sea green pushed out by the monster who had reared its head. He took my arms in his hands, staring at me. He was possessed by anger, but it wasn’t hot. It was ice cold. His muscles trembled.
“Rocco,” I whispered.
He plucked every piece of fruit off me, and when he came to my nose and lips, an animalistic noise tore from his throat, probably at the face I’d made.
The blood. The blood was coming from me.
My nose was busted, and so was my lip. And even though it hurt, it didn’t hurt nearly as much as the look on my husband’s face.
It was a mixture of pure rage and anguish.
I’d never forget it for as long as I lived; I was sure it would haunt me beyond the grave.