8. Shh.A Secret Between Us.How Delicious
Chapter 8
Shh...A Secret Between Us...How Delicious
M y husband was probably getting his bed warmed by that bitch, Monica Attigliano. I knew he was fond of her and whatever magic she seemed to be peddling between her legs. She was a strega , a witch, who probably put droplets of her menstrual blood in her tomato sauce. Rocco had many women, but not many whose beds he would return to.
She was one of them.
One of his “beds.”
I knew part of her appeal had to do with Luca Fausti. He had bedded her years ago, popped her virgin cherry, and she had been lusting after him ever since. Monica had popped Rocco’s, er, cherry, and the three of them were caught up in a ghost storm of bedsheets together. Meaning, Monica was still in love with Luca and Rocco was a warm placeholder for him. Rocco could be a passionate sap at times, and I did not see her appeal, but…whatever he wanted, as long as she did not turn him into a sappy mush with her caring nature.
She was not all that caring when she cursed at me as I walked down the aisle toward Rocco. And it was not because she wanted him for marriage, or a long-term relationship. She cared for him as Luca had cared for her .
I stopped walking for a moment and considered that.
Caring about him.
I cared about him, as well, but in a different way.
I cared enough to see him rise to his place as the head of the Fausti famiglia .
I did not care enough about the women he desired—that was only flesh, and flesh was not something to be concerned about. Unless he started to fall in love.
Then I would have a problem.
If he fell in love, it would only mean that I would be ousted. I had the capability to love, but it would never be the love he seemed to crave. He did his duty as my husband when I invited those people into our bedroom, but I could tell he was not really into it. It was a job to him, using that humungous, beautiful cock for the good of the feminine world.
My friend, the one he would only call my friend, asked after our tryst if he would not mind making a mold of it for her to have.
I rolled my eyes and laughed at the thought.
If I did not think he would mind, perhaps I would ask him if we could do that and hand them out as presents.
Rocco did not want a harem, though, and my body did. I did not want to get attached to him. What we had was an arrangement, nothing more, nothing less. If his job was to pleasure me, in any way I craved, my job was to sit next to him on the Fausti throne, my cape made of animal skin and my crown the sharp dagger that had put the coat around my shoulders.
Most women, after meeting Rocco, could not understand this. How I could be so cold. Cruel, some would even say, but what I said in return is this: fuck off, as they say in America. Rocco was born to lead, and if I became soft, especially in the bedroom, he would turn so romantic, there would be no turning him hard again. If he went soft on me, my desire would go limp.
I could not be both women, anyway. I was born a certain way, and that was that.
And I needed that hard cock .
I needed to watch him with other women, so we could fight over who got to taste him next. He was a virile man and could probably fuck five women at once and not tire.
I sucked in a breath at the thought of that, and a gulp of the perfumed air went down the wrong way in this French chateau that was overly decorated to showcase its riches and the family who owned it.
The Nemours.
The Nemours were as powerful in France as the Faustis in Italy. However, the Fausti family inched them out when it came to being world renowned for their ruthlessness. This is why the Faustis held charitable events, especially the one in Venice, where one king handed over power to the next, so that the world would see them as something other than ruthless.
The Faustis had a romantic streak that no other crime family could claim they had either. The romantic streak was not because their hearts pumped for it. Perhaps to a certain extent they did, for the women they cared for. But the romantic streak was a challenge to the ruthlessness in their blood.
Could they balance both?
Of course, this was the powerful Fausti family, and if the man could not be both, he was not truly considered a man in the eyes of the family.
Same with an all-romantic man.
One had to balance out the other. A man had to know when to switch one off and turn on the other. The romance had to be turned on while the ruthless blood had to be contained in the veins. And if a little of that coldness slipped out during sex?
I shivered.
I craved ruthless, and I could not balance it.
I was thankful not to be a man in that family but the wife of its next king.
Ahh. All the history books would showcase the name Rosaria Caffi in bold, not something as flimsy as italics, the ink as embedded on the page as a mark is on the soul. Eternal. There would be stories of me. Just as there were stories of Grazia Angeli and the women who came before her.
What was I doing thinking about this again?
No more thoughts.
Only forward steps.
The future was as bright as fresh blood with me as the next queen.
La mia spietata regina , as my husband called me. His ruthless queen.
The end.
A hand slipped around my waist, and I smiled at the touch.
Olivier Nemours.
He nipped at my ear. “You have bled for your husband yet?”
I had known Olivier since I was able to remember memories. His family was friends with mine. The Nemours were patrons of the arts, and they adored the opera. I had always known I wanted him as a lover after he stuck his tongue in my ear and made an obscene gesture with it. But at the time, I could not give in to desire and allow him to fuck me. I had to be intact—internally I laughed at the memory of my first time…with myself!
“I have,” I breathed out, anticipation already creeping over my skin like a poisonous scorpion. Will it bite or not?
“What do you say, after the party, we have one of our own?”
“Will it be only the two of us?”
“Never,” he said.
“I accept the invitation then.”
“You would take a banana for me, would you not, you dirty girl.” He ran his hand over my breast, twisting my hardened capezzolo until my mouth parted and a hissed-out breath escaped my lips. “You will be the most stunning woman of all at our private party.”
“You spoil me,” I said, nipping at his lip.
“I will tonight.” He brought his lip closer, letting me nibble at it. “You will enjoy my cock in your ass—I will not take a chance of getting you pregnant. My family will kill me if I cause more trouble with the Faustis.”
He meant that literally, but I did not understand what issue the Fausti family was having with the Nemours. I might have to shelve our tryst for a later date if the issue was enough to start a war. In that, I was loyal to the man and his family that slipped the ring on my left finger. And what a stunner it was. Every flame in the place was attracted to it. It caused rainbows in whichever room I walked into.
“Trouble?” I asked.
He took me by the hair and used it to roughly set me against the wall. His free hand snaked up my leg through the slit in my dress, and he pushed my underwear to the side, stroking my bare fica . He pulled my head back a bit, and my chin rose, my lips parting. I moaned deep and low when his finger went beyond my fica and started to massage between my ass cheeks. He stuck a finger inside of me and I moaned even louder.
“One touch,” he said, pumping into me harder. “He has given me a masterpiece to work with after his touch lingers. Is he as good as the women tell me he is?”
“He is,” I barely got out. “He has wrecked my body, and one touch from anyone else sets me off. That is how sensitive I am now.”
“Good.” He pulled his finger from inside of me and turned me around roughly to face the wall. I set my hands against it, and after he used his knee to nudge me, he lifted my gown and spread my ass cheeks. He inserted a toy inside of me, and after slapping my ass and covering me, grabbed me by the waist and led me out of a private room I had been using to get ready for the party.
He did not even bother to wash his hands.
Nemours was a dirty boy.
I liked it, but I also wanted to be careful. I loved myself too much to let anything happen to such a work of art. I had not even been married a year. I was going to be inside of those pages—the Fausti history books. “You have proof that our party is clean?”
“I do. ”
“I want to see them before the festivities get started.”
“Of course.”
“What about you?” I asked, already feeling overheated from the toy he had inserted inside of me. It was radiating pleasure from my ass to my core, making my thighs tremble. I could almost not wait until later.
Olivier’s parties were legendary! Women and men to sample galore, and what he promised to do to me later? I hope I had an audience! I might crack and hit a note high enough to shatter glass. Imagine the applause!
“ Oui ,” he said. “I carry a copy of my latest paperwork with me. It is a must at my parties. Do you have yours?”
“I came prepared,” I said.
We turned a corner and joined most of the guests in the grand ballroom.
“I look over every bill of health myself.”
“Mmmm.” I had to stop walking and close my eyes. It felt like I was about to explode. “I.” I panted. “Will. See. To. The. Other. Papers. Myself.”
He pinched me on the ass, and I gasped, trying to get as close to his hand as possible. I already needed relief. He studied my face, before he yanked me in the other direction and locked us inside of a bathroom. He tore down my dress, and inserting his finger inside of my fica , started to nip me while I screamed out my orgasm.
The pleasure did not stop rolling through me, though. I wanted the toy deeper inside of me, stretching me so I could accommodate Olivier’s size later. He switched the toy out for a longer and thicker one. And this time, I orgasmed while he watched. He started to stroke himself, and after he exploded in a towel hanging on the rack in the bathroom, he ordered me to clean him up with my mouth.
I shook my head. “Not until I see the proof.”
“You are no fun,” he said, almost pouting, but then a possessed look came into his eyes, and he grinned. “You will pay for that later.”
“I am looking forward to it.” I winked at him, licking my lips .
I was still overheated and overstimulated, though, and sensitive to all touch. Olivier kept his distance from me after we left the bathroom, the tease, and he directed me back to the ballroom with nods of his head. It almost seemed like he was being respectful, the way his hand hovered behind me. My eyes met his, and we both laughed a little. Until we stopped on the threshold of the dance floor.
“Trouble,” he said, nodding toward a man and woman standing on the opposite side.
She was tiny, and extremely beautiful. That was high praise coming from me. I rarely gave a compliment because I found most things in the world did not deserve them. The man next to her…was the spitting image of my husband, except…
Darker.
There was a brooding intensity to him that my husband had, as well, but this man…it was encapsulated in his dark eyes.
Eyes that belonged to none other than Luca Fausti.
In general, all the men in the Fausti family resembled each other in ways that someone who knew the Fausti family would instantly recognize.
I knew them.
I recognized the family’s blood in this man, but I had never met him before.
There was no doubt in my mind, however, that he was not a son of Luca Fausti. I could feel it, as well as I could feel the possession of that man radiating toward that tiny woman.
I needed to be closer to him.
“Tell me, Olivier, will that couple there—” I nodded to them “—be invited members of the party tonight?”
Perhaps Olivier had insulted the man after he had invited the girl to the party later. She looked so sweet to almost be unreal. Her hair was auburn and lush, and styled in a Bridget Bardot voluminous style up top, the longer pieces cascading down her shoulders. Her skin was pale. But those eyes…feline.
If that woman had a dangerous bone in her body, that was where I would find the truth of it. Past those green eyes that were a combination of mine and my husband’s. It was as if his light green eyes washed down the dark of mine and created the color of hers.
Olivier barked out a laugh. “He would kill me for much less than even inviting Mademoiselle Poésy to one of my parties. Watch. Watch how he looks at me. This Brando.”
It was as if the dark-eyed man heard the challenge, and his eyes scanned the room for it. His searching gaze stopped on us, but he did not look at me. He stared at Olivier. If committing viscous murder had a look, the scene of one man stealing another man’s heart from his chest, that was the look this man wore for Olivier.
“He knows you have ill intentions toward his woman,” I said, gladly accepting a drink from a passing waiter. I held it up to Olivier. “You are drugging me tonight, ah?”
“Ah,” he said, getting that wicked gleam back in his eyes. “You will be set loose, beautiful songbird.”
“I do not need it,” I breathed against the glass, but then downed it. A waiter appeared and took it from me. “That name…Poésy.” I tapped my chin. “It sounds familiar.”
Olivier had me at a disadvantage. I did not know these people, and he did. I always stayed up to date on the goings-on in our world. It was always safer that way. Especially when I did not want the enemy to know I was at a disadvantage.
Olivier stared at me with his eyebrows raised and grin on his face.
I waved a dismissive hand. “My honeymoon took me away.”
I did not know if the issue with these two went before that time, but I grasped at it anyway.
“He took you away,” he breathed out. “I wish I could have been there.”
“You were not,” I said. “Not even in thought.”
“You are a bitch, and I adore it.” He sighed. “Scarlett Rose Poésy is the newest etoile at the ballet. She is American-born, but dances as if she were born in Russia, France, and every other country where ballet seems to run through the veins. She is a star. A prize. I was able to get her underground. You see. Her man, the one there, left her out in the cold for much too long. I invited her to my warm club, she accepted, and now…she will be the star of my show.”
“What is she?” I murmured, feeling a burning dread settle in the pit of my stomach.
The Nemours, like the Faustis, looked one way to the world, but were another behind their ornate gates. Except, the Faustis would never use a woman the way the Nemours would. If that family wanted something a woman had, no matter if this thing was born inside of her or not, they would take it. They would start a war over it.
“A vampire?”
He waved this off, dismissing me. “What she is has no name. That is how spectacular she is.”
“She is not a girl from the street.”
“ Non! Non! ” He laughed. “Of course she is not. What she is is otherworldly. The blood that runs through her veins is called magic. Does not matter where she dances, she captures the world around her when she does.”
“What does her man say about this?” I was certain I had never met him before, but he was blood related somehow. I would never be so bold to put my beautiful head on a chopping block for most things, but for the truth that was plainly staring me in the face, I would. This was how certain I was of the dark-eyed man’s blood.
There was that woman in America that the family kept mostly to themselves. She was not a secret of Luca’s, but the information surrounding the relationship had always been kept under lock and key. Marzio had kept the lock and key close to his heart. So had Luca. I had always wondered…
“You say his name is Brando?” I asked.
“Brando,” Olivier said, making sure to enunciate his name correctly.
Interesting enough, but what made my heart race and my breath catch? If he was a son of Luca’s, in which order did he come? Something told me he was older than my husband, even if not by much, and if he was …
Both of our worlds would be rocked to the fucking core.
If this Brando claimed the Fausti name, and he wanted to accept his birthright, and he was older, he had the right to challenge my husband for his spot.
And if he did and Rocco lost?
We would both lose our titles.
Our standing in the famiglia .
The toy in my ass seemed just like that—a toy. It was an irritant that I wanted out. All pleasure had left my body as soon as I realized our future in the family could be in jeopardy.
“I will be right back.” I excused myself from Olivier’s side and found the bathroom we had used before. It smelled of our sex, candy and wild animal, even though we did not have it. The dirty towel was still on the rack. It seemed like Olivier left it there on purpose. “Dirty, dirty boy,” I whispered to my reflection as I slid the toy out and left it on the counter.
I was a dirty woman, but in that moment, I had turned into a sleuth, and my dirty desires would have to be put on hold. I could attend one of Olivier’s orgies any night, but I may never get a chance with Brando and the ballerina again.
I stopped when I found this Brando on the dance floor, slow dancing with the old ballerina, Maja Resnik. The sound echoing inside of my head was that of clicking fingers. I tried to remember…Maja Resnik…Maja Resnik…Maja Resnik…?
A solid click.
She was the ballerina’s grandmother, who was a legend in that world.
If this Brando was Luca’s son, which I was almost positive he was, that made complete sense to me. The Fausti men always sought out women to marry who were the who’s who of society. Take me, for instance. I checked off all the boxes on paper, even if Rocco was not satisfied with our physical relationship.
Again, he was Rocco Fausti—he could fuck a group of women while putting on a porno show for some lame sap who could not last ten seconds—and one woman would not work. He had needs as great as eating, and how could one woman equal to a feast? It was impossible, no matter what his foolish heart had convinced him of. I knew better. And it did not matter to me.
If he fell in love…
That might be a problem.
And I could not deny the pang in my heart when I thought of it. It was not truly a pain, but more of a hard foot stomp when I did not get my way.
I was not sure why, but it was not the time to reflect on it.
However, physical and beyond seemed to matter to the young ballerina who watched her man dance with the old ballerina. I could see it in her eyes. A fierce hurt and a fierce pride in the man.
She was hopelessly in love with him, two tears sliding down her cheeks as she watched the dance with starved eyes.
When I caught the way Brando’s eyes had taken her in, I would say that the feeling was mutual.
But what did sex have to do with love?
Niente.
After the dance was over, and the crowd applauded them, a group formed around the man.
A Frenchwoman, Nicolette, who would be included in the private party later, asked for the man’s name.
“Brando Fausti,” he answered, but it was clear to see he did not speak a word of French, and the woman spoke little English. He had a deep voice, an echo of my husband’s, and the deep bass of it seemed to rumble in his chest. I was willing to wager my crown that when he laughed, if he laughed, it would be raspy.
“Fausti?” Nicolette repeated.
Brando nodded in answer.
The Frenchwoman called to Nigel, an Englishman who was heir to a thoroughbred dynasty. While Nicolette introduced them, Nigel’s eyes searched his face until they registered absolute shock.
“Dear boy,” Nigel said, his voice lax after too much drink, “do tell me, are you blood of one of Italy’s most elite families? The legendary Fausti family? If you say it isn’t so, my eyes do fail me. ”
Brando eyes went back and forth between Nicolette and Nigel. He was not uncomfortable, but perhaps preparing to speak the truth in public, which perhaps he knew might cause an effect he did not want in motion.
“You are the spitting image of Marzio.” Nigel rocked back on his heels, seemingly pleased that he had connected Brando to the Faustis, though Brando had not answered him yet.
My breath was bated as chatter began around us.
“Did you say he is a Fausti?”
“A Fausti?”
“How lovely!”
“Oui! He is the spitting image of Luca. Is he an uncle? What a splendid family! Do you drive as well?”
“Such an impressive Ferrari collection they have, indeed.”
“Marzio’s wife, Grazia, was related to the Machiavelli family of Florence and a gorgeous actress of her time. Splendid bloodline. They are Italy.”
“What do you do?”
Brando was content in allowing the crowd to gain in frenzy, since it allowed him to keep silent. But I would not allow this.
“Brando Fausti?” I almost purred, sliding my hand along his strong forearm. “I am Rosaria Caffi. I know your family well, but I do not know you.” And I refused to allow him to skate around the truth. I would pull the truth out of him, or someone else would try. And if he lied?
La mia parola è buona quanto il mio sangue. My word is as good as my blood.
He moved out of my touch, almost repulsed by it. “You wouldn’t,” he said with an American accent.
Shame that. Italian from that mouth would be so…pleasurable to the ears.
My fingers were clicking inside of my mind again. I had pieced together the puzzle before, but I wanted confirmation on where he fit. Then I would have to decide who to tell about this. Luca needed to know another of his bastard sons was out in the wild—especially one that had never bothered to use the name before.
In America, it was worth something, but in Europe, especially in Italy, the name elicited fear and sighs.
“No, perhaps not,” I said slowly, rolling my tongue. “ Lucious è stato impegnato. ”
A grin came to his face before he translated my words. Lucious was busy once upon a time.
At the look on his face, my thighs ached, and I sucked in a breath, the pleasurable feeling tingling my asshole when I thought about what this man could do to me, and the language he could speak to me while he did so.
I nodded once, grinning at him, at what came across as mischievously.
I wanted him.
My cold blood burned for him.
It would not be possible, though, I could tell by the way he would not hold eye contact and was repulsed by my touch. I did not take it personally. The little ballerina had earned that right.
Her green eyes burned from across the room in jealousy, and after watching and trembling in anger, she almost floated across the room.
I should have known then I was in trouble.
A photographer held his camera up and took a picture of Brando and me. I was prepared for it, but he was not. He was too busy watching the little ballerina float.
“Monsieur Fausti, merci beaucoup,” the photographer said politely. “I will be sure to mention that you are here with Rosaria Caffi.”
“I’m here with Scarlett,” Brando corrected him.
The photographer looked between the little ballerina and this gorgeous species of a beast, trying to understand. The photographer had every right to. I fit with these men. The little ballerina did not. She was a fucking play toy, something that belonged spinning inside of a music box to childish music .
“The ballerina?” The photographer’s face scrunched up in confusion. “I thought she was here with Monsieur Nemours?”
This was where I truly became invested, enthralled, sucked in. Brando Fausti’s response would answer all my questions, even if he had no idea I had them.
Brando and the little ballerina stared at each other.
“I am not here with Monsieur Nemours, as I had mentioned earlier,” the ballerina said to Brando while he gazed at her with pathetic stars in his eyes. Her French accent was impeccable, and I wondered if Olivier had lied to me about her being from America.
It did not matter where she came from. I did not understand this! This…toy was half my size, and it was as if she had this magnificent animal on a leash!
Why?
My heart stomped again and perhaps so did my heel on the ancient marble.
The crowd hushed until Nemours walked over and clapped a hand on Nigel’s shoulder. “I hear there is an elite here.” He laughed, but knowing Olivier, it was almost mocking. “Fausti.”
“No one more elite than you, Nemours.” Nigel gave him a playful jab in the ribs.
It was hard to not to look at Brando Fausti. His face underwent a spectacular change when Olivier got too close to the plaything. It was murderous.
The toy took a step closer to Brando, feeling the tension, keeping the leash on the Fausti.
“Ah, I suppose.” Nemours sighed and looked Brando in the eye. “Word travels quickly. I did not realize I was in the presence of one related to such greats. Tell us, Fausti, which one of the greats should we thank for your presence here tonight?”
“Luca Fausti,” the toy answered, her voice stronger than her bones it seemed, and filled to the brim with pride at Luca’s name. Or it seemed that way. “You might know him as Lucious.”
Her man was not as prideful though, which calmed my heart a little, but not much. There was no doubt that, after this, he was going to be pulled into our world, and he did not seem to relish the idea of it. However, the Fausti blood was strong in him, and blood would go to blood. It was only natural. I would have to direct the tides, even if I could not control the entire ocean.
The little toy was brazen. She lifted her chin, turned her nose up, almost daring any of these men or women to say a word about the Fausti family, or perhaps her man. Hmm…she was attempting to be his armor in this fight. Which told me a great deal. Brando Fausti had purposely not joined the family.
“One of the greats, to be sure!” Nigel jumped in to save the plot. “Of course, I recognized the resemblance right from the go. But I did not want to be presumptuous.” Nigel turned to Nemours, nodding his head. “Fine racer. Just splendid.” He turned back to Brando. “How is the old boy?”
Brando snatched a whiskey straight from a passing server, taking a drink of fire. “Serving hard time in Louisiana. Two counts of vehicular manslaughter.”
“That is—” Nigel’s upbeat response died in his throat. He grabbed for another drink and turned his eyes away from Brando.
I smiled, even though I was trembling inside at the confirmation.
Brando continued with the ruthless truth. “Blood level of a lethal percent. Didn’t even know his name, or hers—the woman he killed, and the child she carried. I have his inmate number, if you’d like to get in touch. He’ll be there a while. He killed another inmate, adding a few more years to his sentence.”
Scarlett knocked into Brando, the little ballerina turning into a fireball as she raced toward the exit of the ballroom and to the outside balcony. Her man followed, ready to destroy anyone or anything that got in the way of him catching her.
For a woman of her size, it seemed the fire inside of her pushed her feet. She moved with grace and speed.
I followed behind them, acting as if I needed fresh air too, but the drug Olivier had given me had started to course through my veins .
He was right.
I would have fucked a banana to release the pressure. All those years I had to keep it locked inside so I’d be untouched for my husband, but after our wedding night, there was no stopping me from releasing it whenever I felt the need to.
Except.
This.
This uncertainty was stopping me.
On one hand, it seemed as if Brando Fausti wanted nothing to do with his family. On the other, I had a feeling Olivier was going to cause a fuss about the toy.
I did not follow the feuding couple out, but instead, chose to eavesdrop from the window directly behind them. She was staring out like some lost girl, and he was staring at her like he would burn the world down for her.
Ach. Sickening.
But whatever. This was not my love story, grazie .
Ah, even better— not —she was gazing up at the stars.
A toy who gazed up at the stars.
How original.
And pathetic.
Though she did have fire, and I admired that. I admired something about her—perhaps it was how she was getting an animal of a man to follow behind her as if she was pulling his leash.
A conversation began to take place.
It seemed cold at first, until he and she were blowing smoke out of their mouths, as if the temperature around them had grown colder, but their temperatures had only grown hotter.
The dress on my body felt like it was on fire, and that tingling in my ass was ramping up again. I kept imagining them touching each other, then her touching him, me touching her, and then both of us fighting over the massive cock in his pants.
There was no doubt he had one. And there was no doubt he knew how to use it.
What a waste on that toy—kind of. There was something fiery about her that I longed to taste, but I only liked women when a man was sandwiched between us.
The toy turned to go, but Brando caught her arm. He sent her an order— look at me— because she did after he spoke, refusing to let her arm ago. When she smiled at him after meeting his eyes, I imagined angels weeping with sorrow at the pain in it.
What did he do to her?
Perhaps he had touched another woman, and she fell to pieces?
I could see that inside of her. A jealousy that came through her eyes at the mere thought of him looking at or touching another woman.
“Grow a backbone” was on the tip of my tongue, but I could not bring myself to even whisper it. She had one, but it was weak when it came to her man. That was only going to cause her heartache. Those men were not meant for one woman. How many times did I have to repeat this mantra to myself? And should I repeat it to her?
Not my battle.
I preferred to watch what was going on before me, and whatever Brando was saying to her seemed to be hitting a nerve. Her jaw was clenched, and so was the set of her teeth when she said something to him. I had to give it to the toy, she was standing up to him in her own way. I wanted to applaud her and say “bravo,” but I did not want them to know I was watching. I doubted they would have even cared. It was as if they shared one world, only the two of them in it.
This.
The two of them.
That was what my husband wanted.
And if Brando Fausti came before my husband in lineage and wanted what my husband had? The Fausti Kingdom?
Well, Brando Fausti would just have to die. Condolences to his toy.
Brando released the little ballerina’s arm, circling her, running a hand thorough his hair. This was something his brother never did. Rocco could be as still as standing water, and then a monster would appear from the depths of it, taking a head off and spitting it out, as if he were only eating dinner.
A few guests rushed past me onto the balcony, not wanting to miss the firework display. I would have loved to break their hearts with this news. The real show had been on that balcony, and it was coming to an end. A few people took positions next to me. A few started to press against my back. I growled in frustration, and a woman cowered, moving closer to her husband for protection.
Cha! I would eat him alive.
I untangled myself from the clump of bright eyes watching fireworks explode over Olivier’s rich French estate and caught the two feuding lovebirds as they made a hasty exit.
Olivier suddenly appeared next to me. “Luca’s son?” He quirked a brow up at me.
I knew better than to take the bait. “Many men have made claims such as his over the years.”
“Perhaps,” he said slowly, running his fingertip up and down my arm. “But none of them had Luca’s face and powerful build to back up the claim.”
I said nothing to him as I looked into his eyes. He lifted a mask, turning it left and right between his fingers. It was split in half by two colors. Crushed red rubies on one side and crushed canary diamonds on the other. He secured it to my face and set his hand on my back, thinking he was going to lead me to a private section of his expansive property for our planned party.
I refused to go.
He sighed. “What is it?”
“What is your trouble with the ballerina and the man who claims he has Fausti blood?”
His face tensed and his eyes lit. Olivier had a temper, and a possessive streak to win, but since I never made myself a challenge for him, I was safe on the second issue. Safe on the first as well. He did not want to fuck with me. After he took drugs to fuck every person at his party, I would not think twice about stabbing him in his heart while his cock lay limp against his thigh. Perhaps I would even take it as a souvenir.
“It is not an issue…yet. He is going to make it one. I want what he believes is his. He cannot have her. The end. Let us go.”
I stepped away from him. “Where are they going?” There was no doubt in my mind that Olivier was tracking the toy, therefore, Brando was being tracked by association. If Olivier had enough of the game, he would try to have Brando killed.
If Brando truly did belong to the Faustis, which every bone in my body screamed he did, then it would start a war between the two families, Brando associating or not. The Fausti family was not going to allow the Nemours to dispose of one of their own without repercussions. Perhaps my husband and his brothers did not know about this son, but the old man—Marzio—certainly did. He knew everything.
“I believe to my exclusive club, Sub Rosa.”
“The one where a rose is required to get in?” I asked.
He nodded.
“I want a rose.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “This night is not going to end the way I hoped, with you shattering on my cock.”
I smiled at him. “You know me too well.”
He grumbled like a child. “Loyalty!” He cursed it. “The only thing you should have been loyal to tonight is my cock!” He looked away from me, toward a server who kept staring at him, and Olivier’s eyes stared to heat at the way the man was watching him. Another late-night party goer who would have a hand full of Olivier’s balls and his cock by the time the party was over.
Shame what I would miss. My husband would only touch a man to kill him, but oh, the excitement at what was to come!