King of Italy (Fausti Family Royal)

Prologue

The Prayer

I t was a cold night in Maranello, Italy. My blood ran too hot to ever feel a true chill, but perhaps because an empty chasm had been opened inside of me, the frigid weather felt as if it was touching my bones. It was as if the isolation was causing my skin to thin. I had felt the fading of my armor before, but not to this extent. The cavity had long been closed, but after it was torn open, I was drowning in longing that had collected over the years.

The scents of various perfumes in the night air, drifting from my skin, along with the taste of more than one woman on my tongue was a frigid reminder of who I was.

The grandson of Marzio Piero Fausti.

Son of Lucious Leone Fausti.

I am Rocco Piero Fausti.

The first grandson and son in line for the Fausti throne.

I was alone in this life, bred to be a ruler and not a follower. And although I had brothers, cousins, family who could understand this, we all had rooted places in our world, and that was where we stood. I trained my brothers to be soldiers, to follow me, listen to me, and if someday I ceased to exist, the next in line, Dario, would take my place, leaving Romeo to move up in line and continue our branch of the family tree .

Hierarchy ruled, and our laws were our laws. We acted and reacted accordingly, whether the situation was romantic or ruthless. We balanced on the edges of the swords we were taught how to battle with.

We were Faustis, and as Faustis, we did not question our roles in the family.

However.

On nights such as this one, when the cold pierced my skin and stabbed my bones, opening the hollow cavity inside of me filled with longing, two questions rose from the darkest depths.

Whom do I belong to? Who belongs to me?

I did not feel these were absurd questions or fantastical ones.

All my life I was taught to believe I belonged to the family. My grandfather. My father. I could understand that. I could accept it. However, a man such as I needed more than that.

I craved to love and be loved in return.

I hungered to have a relationship such as my grandparents had—Marzio and Grazia. I was not present to witness such love, but theirs was a love that echoed throughout the years.

So did the longing in my grandfather’s eyes and in his voice when he spoke of her. He rarely did. My grandfather’s sister, Lola, once told me that, after my grandmother passed, it was as if my grandfather held her memories close to his chest, refusing to allow them freedom to move about. Perhaps to him, if the air touched them, they would fade, and he could not stand the thought of it. He was the only soul powerful enough to keep her alive.

It was through other’s memories that I felt a true sense of awe at what they had shared. From all accounts, my grandparents had had a legendary love.

And what my father shared with the woman in Louisiana stuck in my heart as well. I did not know the woman. Nor did I know anything about the love my father shared with her. However, even though my mind could be cold and practical, my romantic heart was hot and reckless. Without my father having to tell me, my heart knew. What my father shared with the woman in Louisiana was worth his life. For which he would be spending a great deal of it locked behind bars.

This was what I asked for.

All I asked for.

One woman’s heart.

One man’s heart.

What existed between the two hearts only for the two of them.

This seemed to be a problem for me. Multiple women came at me at once, and my body proudly served, even if my heart did not.

In each of these stranger’s faces, I longed to finally be home. In each of their eyes, I searched for a connection that could make me move without a finger touching me. Perhaps I would not even know my feet were moving until she stopped moving. The lion inside of my heart hungered to recognize his mate and react to her. And even though I had a lifetime ahead of me, the craving felt urgent to fulfill.

Perhaps because a wedding arrangement would be made soon.

Especially after what had happened with Romilda.

I had gotten the woman pregnant, or so she had claimed. Uncle Tito had discovered the truth before I slipped a ring on her finger and vowed my entire life to her. She had been untrue to me. The child, mine , she claimed was growing in her womb was a lie. Her womb was as empty as my heart of its one true love.

I sighed, and a cloud of smoke purled from my mouth as my feet led me toward the witch’s tower. It had expansive views of the land, but more than that, it was the celestial view that most people flocked to gaze at. For as far as my eyes could see, the sky was overwhelmed with cold stars burning in the darkness.

The sun warms the earth. I often wondered, on a night such as this one, if the stars caused the temperature to be this frigid. And as the full moon has the power to move tides and people, did the burning of the stars have the same power to make people feel the cold radiating in the air—feel it so deeply, it made a man hunch his shoulders and keep his hands tucked deep into his pockets, even if a furnace usually burned deep inside of him?

Mother Nature.

She is a force unlike any other.

It all comes down to a woman, ah?

It did for me.

One woman.

The woman my body longed to protect and serve.

The woman my heart longed to be protected by.

To give love.

To know love.

The smoke purling out of my mouth seemed to come faster, and it did not have anything to do with climbing the stone steps. My heart reacted to the thought as though it was pure truth, and it was determined to force my body to feel the power in it.

Even if my body understood the notion, my cock seemed to have a mind of its own and refused to stand down until the lion inside of my chest roared. A flood of truth, such as my blood, commanded me to serve the one woman who would capture my eyes, my heart, and ultimately my body for the rest of my life.

For a man such as myself, the cock was harder to tame than the rest of me. It was created for pleasure, and it demanded a central role in the searching nature of my heart on this journey to eternity, since it was the wildest thing about me.

My entire being would agree. Or it would not.

If the agreement was made, a lifelong deal would be set in stone, a stone as unforgiving as the grave, existing as long as eternity. Neither heart nor cock would be at war, and neither would battle to wear the crown.

I felt in the pocket of my suit for the photos. All were there.

My feet brought me to a glassless window in the tower. The view of the stars was as long as eternity. If it was even possible, the cold felt as if it was sticking to my bones instead of stabbing them. Instead of blood, it felt as though ice water ran through my veins, though my skin was still hot from the furnace inside of me. It was an odd feeling, almost like being sick, down with fever. I had it once. Only once. It did not last long, but it was enough time to remember, to never forget the clashing of teeth and shivering of bones.

Forcing myself to remove my hands from my pockets, I set the photos down on the ledge, staring at the women my father had sent for me to choose from.

One of these women would be my wife.

One of these women would have my vows.

The problem?

The pacing lion in my heart paced some more, and after my eyes fed the images to it for the hundredth time, he settled on the ground and yawned, getting comfortable. There was no excitement, no thrill running through my blood. No roar. No reason to hold a hand to my chest, holding him back from taking on the world and claiming his spot next to his one true mate.

My cock was ahead in this battle of the body. If it had a woman, it was satisfied to do the satisfying.

My eyes watched the photos carefully, and when a gust of wind swept up, strong enough to almost push me back, two of the three pictures took flight and disappeared into the darkness.

That was not good enough.

Strong enough.

The picture that remained, even if twirling violently inside of the stone room, was of Rosaria Caffi, the songbird of Italy. I had never heard her sing and would make a date to be at her next performance. I slipped the picture back in my pocket, close to my heart, closing my eyes.

I offered up a prayer.

All that I am.

All that my heart desires.

Then I asked in return for that heart’s desire to be given to me in physical form. For her to see me with all-seeing eyes. For her heart to recognize mine right away. We would be new, but ancient at the same time. For her body to yearn to be wrapped up in mine. For the only reason her soul would levitate would be because it needed to get to mine, her body the vessel that kept it locked inside.

One man.

One woman.

Key and lock.

Together, we would own an eternal treasure that would make us rich.

Perhaps this yearning inside of me could be found in the songbird once I heard her voice. Perhaps it would be in her voice where her romance lived. Where her love could be found.

I was not sure.

I was not sure about anything in life except for my place in the Fausti famiglia, and if that was all the understanding Rosaria Caffi and I had…perhaps the love my heart was hungry for could be found. It could grow, if not felt at first sight.

Another hard gust of wind howled outside of the window. It pushed against me, as if it wanted to prove how strong it was, how it could make me move without me even realizing it.

“I know how strong you are, my love,” I whispered. “I know you can leash a beast and make him walk behind you without even a tug, if you so wish.”

Searching in the same pocket I’d had the photos stored, I pulled out a long chain. The pendant had the face of a lion set in gold, and beneath him, a ruby heart sparkled like blood in his chest. It was a sturdy piece. Something a man would wear and then give to the woman who would protect his heart. Hold it against her heart and carry it as a shield and a claim.

Looking toward the stars, I squeezed the pendant in my fist, cutting my palm. My blood spilled on it, staining it. If life did not go as planned, and my romantic heart began to shrivel, this pendant would stand in for my heart. It symbolized the lion in my chest. I said a prayer over it, a common one, before I tucked it back and turned to leave.

My eyes narrowed on a piece of...fabric drifting like a melody inside of the stone walls. It was not the violent thrashing of Rosaria Caffi’s photo, but a soft sway, as if it was as curious about me as I was of it. It seemed at peace being contained with me. It seemed to go with the winds of life, finding itself in a place it had never been before. And although a cold hand had presumably forced it here, it almost seemed to accept this. As if accepting this meant it had accepted its fate with grace.

It reminded me of a ribbon fluttering around a prison. From behind walls, the view of the stars was mocking to a man such as myself. A man not accustomed to being locked in a cage.

I blinked my eyes, shaking my head. Perhaps I’d had too much to drink earlier.

No, if that were the case, I would be comfortable, the whiskey stoking the natural fire inside of me to fight against the overbearing chill.

A woman had lost her hair piece. A delicate scarf. Presumably ripped out by the violence of the wind.

That was all.

Patting the spot over my heart, to be sure the chain with the pendant and the photo were still with me, I took the two steps toward the exit. At the door, the fabric drifted in front of me, almost frantic, and then it covered my eyes before it took off with another gust, the stone wall snagging at its fibers. It waved for only a second before it took off again.

I turned back to it.

The gossamer wing of fabric had settled on the ground. I was not sure why this bothered me. It felt as if the fabric did not deserve to be there, as though it were trash, and trapped in this stone cage for anyone to find and disregard.

My romantic heart ruled my body, and I went back for it. I brought it close to my nose, scenting a woman. A woman who had a floral essence, but also a bit spicy and citrusy. Her long hair, which seemed light brown, stuck to its fibers.

A cord of three is not so easily broken…

I wrapped the scarf around my hand, as if I were an old knight and my damsel had offered me a token of her love before I left for a battle. With a different prayer on my mind and the words echoing inside of my heart, I left.

My prayer was that a woman with the same hypnotizing scent, the same beautiful hair, would satisfy the lion in my chest someday, and in the claim, in the one word, mine , the empty void in me would close, and my skin would be warm once again.