5. A Mistake Was Made
Chapter 5
A Mistake Was Made
I t is the truth, even though the world would find it hard to believe.
I, Rosaria Caffi, a legend in the opera world, am human.
Being human means, apparently, that I can make mistakes.
My first one in the history of my life: inviting that wretched Freja into the bedroom with me and my new husband.
I had met Freja on a private flight from Sweden back to Italy. I had been invited to perform at a charitable event. Thinking Freja would be open to some charity of her own, I invited her into my bedroom on my wedding night. She had been flirting with me the entire flight. I had never been with a woman, or wished to be, but I knew my new husband would need double the pleasure to keep him satisfied. And more than that, to remind him over the years of how powerful he was.
I knew my role in his life.
It was not to play the traditional wife.
I would be the equally ruthless queen who whispered in his ear when he was becoming too soft. Rocco Fausti had passion running through his veins, and passion could lead to weakness. He would not become weak or lax. He would be as feared as his grandfather, as his father. I would remind him of this, even if it took me sharing him in the bedroom to keep him in the red.
Sighing, I closed my eyes as the yacht to Monaco stirred up the waters below us and brought forth the memories of the night he had with Freja. She could not touch me, of course. He did not lose his breath after like he had done with me, and we had only fucked the once, but watching him work her into frenzies made my fica ache and dampen. Even the thought of how he had said that, fica , the word for fig in Italian, but the equivalent of pussy. Because it can purr, ah? I moaned to myself, fidgeting in my lounge chair.
Rocco looked over at me, his eyes covered by dark sunglasses, and then turned his face back to the sun.
I sighed again, and it was wistful sounding. He was one of the most stunning men I had ever seen. Fausti blood ran strong through his veins. Jet black hair that was as soft as the finest silk. Sea green eyes that were much, much, lighter than mine. Skin the color of sun-warmed sand. Long black lashes that only enhanced his eyes. His bone structure was impossibly perfect. High cheekbones. A nose that was as straight as an arrow, which gave contrast to the softer, plumper lips below it. His teeth were straight and white, and depending on his mood, they could melt a woman’s heart or warn a man when he smiled and showed them to the world.
The tattoo on his forearm solidified his place in our world—a royal member of the Fausti famiglia . There was no need to baptize him in their way of life. He was born with their blood running through his veins, pumping through his heart. But the tattoo symbolized his acceptance of it. It was their thing—a lion with a rosary around its neck, a sacred heart in the center.
What made me even more…breathless?
The thought that Rocco had never lost control with Freja but had been mindlessly fucking me . He was an animal, no separation between the lion and the man. I could get a tender hand to touch me anytime, anywhere, and I would if the need ever hit, but with Rocco Fausti?
I would be the only woman he turned into an animal for .
He would be the only man I allowed to hunt me in that way.
That big cock of his was a weapon, and if my insides had anything to say about it, they were weeping out of soreness.
How delicious is that?
The only regret I had, again, was allowing another woman in the bedroom when I could have pushed him into that state myself. Not by kissing him, touching him, making his cock stiff, but by fingering myself and taking the honor away from him.
I should have started with that instead of offering him tender passion on a platter first.
I almost thought I had lost him. (I should have known better.) That he would go to the lawyer and say the arrangement was not viable. I was not as untarnished as my family had assured his family I was. He had watched me pop my cherry on my own.
Waa. Waa. Waa.
What was so honorable about an intact piece of skin? Sooner or later, it would go, and better by my finger than by a bicycle seat or something as hard and ridiculous.
My place in Rocco Fausti’s life really had nothing to do with sex.
The thought of our arrangement brought the details back to me.
Yes, I must give him heirs, but that was in the future.
“Ach.” I rolled my eyes. I did not want children of my own, but…it was part of the deal—a non-negotiable part of it—and I had to agree, since Rocco was the oldest son of Luca Fausti and the first grandson of Marzio.
At least these sons would be heirs to the Fausti throne, and my name and blood would be mixed with one of the most notorious and, at the same time, honorable families in Italy’s history. More so than that, my family name would be mixed with theirs.
Oh, how amazing it was when the world over found out I was engaged to none other than Rocco Fausti! If it would not have been such a girlie move, as they call it, I would have squealed and clapped.
I waved a hand, pushing my feelings aside.
These sons could be raised by help. A price to pay for belonging to the family. I’d mostly be responsibility-free, except for taking care of them while they developed in my womb.
Rocco could even have children as his father did, with unknown women. Yes! That would be fine with me. I would bring the idea up, but not until the sting of our night faded from his face. And the scent of her from his mouth. He had the smell of Freja fica still on his tongue.
I would wait until he broached the subject. That way I did not sting his pride again and make another mistake. I had to be careful of my steps. We were heading toward a place not many men could claim they reached.
King of the Fausti family.
Back to my point, before I followed a different thought again. There were so many of them!
My place in Rocco Fausti’s life.
It was not to make mad love in the bedroom. Cook him meals. Feed his passionate heart with warm words and fake support.
Another woman could do that for him.
Easily.
Look how easily, and soon that daughter of a whore started to beg to have his baby. It only took a deep look into her eyes and a gentle caress of his hand.
I laughed at the thought. I laughed and remembered the sting of tears rolling down my overheated face after he started to be tender to her. That was not me.
Tender. Or caring. Or loving.
Perhaps that was where my struggle came in. He needed both—tender and ruthless. I could only be one.
Rocco glanced at me from the side of his eye.
If he wanted me, he had to get used to my—I touched my temple—interesting mind.
I was so mad, though, that I wanted to claw her eyes out! She could take the tender and turn him soft. That was why I pushed for him to hurt her. To turn into the ruthless man I knew him to be. I wanted to see if he could lose himself in her as he would lose himself in me. He did not. But perhaps…he could, if the right woman ever came along.
I waved my hand again, dismissing the thought.
So what if I was not drawn to his light but to his darkness? If he could not have both in me, at least the darkness would push him to be the most feared and respected man in the history of the Fausti family. And one thing I knew for certain about his family: the women made more of an impact on the history books than did the men.
And I was the wife, the queen, who would have his back when a man came at it holding the sword of an enemy, and I would be a reminder of how ruthless he was. I would tip him in that direction while his many mistresses tipped him in the other. In his veins, inside of his heart, I was his ruthless queen, and the other women were his sappy mistresses. He could make them cry with how tender his touch could be, cry out when he entered them in such pleasure and pain, sigh when he bathed them and laugh when he kissed their foolish mouths.
When he fucked me, he would remember who he was.
My king.
The future king of the Fausit family.
That place in his life could never be fulfilled by anyone but me.
I was born for that role.