12. The Chapter that Changed My Life,Also Known As A Missing Package on a Street of Romance
Chapter 12
The Chapter that Changed My Life, or Also Known As: A Missing Package on a Street of Romance
A bate Fetel pears, a bottle of Chianti, and a wedge of Pecorino di Pienza—mine—all fucking gone.
Twice.
These things were a treat on my long drives. I would eat them in the car if time did not permit me a proper meal at a table. Mario had said I had picked them up twice! I did not. He knew better than to challenge my word. He was more perplexed than anything.
Mario had pointed to the door. “The beautiful signora ,” he said in his trademark sing-song voice, “that was with you last time claimed them.”
I had turned just in time to see the signora he pointed at walking out of the store.
Beautiful signora? Last time? Mario was rising in age, and I started to wonder if time was stealing his memory. Then he proceeded to tell me the woman answered to the name Fausti.
Women in Italy did not take a man’s last name as they did in America. My wife, or any woman married to a Fausti, would use the name if she needed to, but I could not foresee a woman using the name to swindle a package of pears, wine, and cheese, unless she was starving. In that case, the offense was forgiven and would be made right so she would never have to swindle for food again.
However.
There was a man involved, one who Mario seemed to mistake me for.
The mysterious woman could have possibly been my great aunt Lola, who was married to the famed doctor, Tito Sala, and went by the name Fausti. She and my grandfather were siblings. But I also knew Mario would never mistake Prozio Tito for a Fausti man. He was birdlike. And Mario knew Prozia Lola and would not mind delivering the goods to her himself. Prozia Lola had charms I did not, even for a Fausti.
I stepped outside of the shop, again, frustrated that Mario had not gotten another shipment of the pears yet. It made me even more determined to find this mysterious woman and get to the bottom of this mistero .
My bella pears, Chianti, and cheese were taken! Twice!
A growl rumbled in my chest, and two young women walking by, English by their accents, gave me a wide birth, but further down the street, they grew closer together, laughing into each other, and then gave me backward glances.
“Fausti,” I called out toward them.
They stopped, narrowed their eyes, and shook their heads, lifting their hands as if they did not understand. They seemed to think Fausti was an Italian word and not a given name.
Neither woman was the taker of my special packages then.
“Lunch!” one of them called out. “ Lunch? ”
“Errr…” The other one pulled her backpack forward, unzipped it, and searched through it until she lifted a short fat book and started thumbing through its pages. “Er, pranzo, I think!”
The other woman made a motion between them. “With us? We are new here in Italy.” She made sure to pronounce every word correctly, punctuating breaths between them.
Sighing, I pinched the bridge of my nose. I did not recognize my life lately. The women were beautiful, but I had no interest in lunch with them. I did not even want to look at them. I briefly wondered if my wife was a succubus and was draining the life out of me. She did not mind sex alone lately and enjoyed the pasta I fed her in bed after—the intimacy she felt I needed—but Rosaria would always be Rosaria, and she was becoming a part of my shadow after the Paris trip.
She was up to something. Sometimes I imagined her with a jaunty yellow feather sticking from her blood-red lips. And even though my life could possibly be short, life with her felt like dreaded centuries, though in a way, she was becoming a shelter for me, even if she brought storms inside with her.
I understood the feeling, but then again, I did not.
Especially after the forgotten trip to Trapani. The specifics had been washed clean from my memories—I was the only one in control of my thoughts—but the blood in my veins was a constant subconscious reminder that I had not been wanted since before I was conceived. All I seemed to be good for was becoming a ruthless king in the Fausti family and pleasing my wife with my “massive cock,” as she called it. I refused to call it a “pleasure beam,” as her friend did.
My life lately, ah?
The sound of heels clicking on the pavement came from behind me, and the two young women scattered like little mice in the face of a hunting lioness. My wife scared even some men. I should have been proud of this, and perhaps there was a slight bit of pride—she was formidable and could handle her own as a woman—but mostly, she tired me. Not physically, but someplace much deeper.
She slid her hand over my shoulder as she made it to my side. “Hello, husband,” she said in a bright tone, as if she was happy to see me, but I wondered why. “I see you had two great options till I came along. Did I scare those pretty ladies away?” She snapped her teeth close to my ear .
I removed her hand and stepped away. “My special package has been taken. Twice.”
She blinked at me, a slow grin coming to her face. Then she repeated what I’d said but in a sad voice. “Come now,” she said in a faux sweet voice. “You can always get more.”
“Tell me,” I said in Italian. “What you know about this situation.”
She sighed, as dramatic as she was. “If I tell you what I know, will you tell me what has been eating you lately?”
“No,” I said.
“Is it about a woman?”
“It was.”
She studied my face. “Have you fallen in love?”
A slow grin came to my face at the look on her face. She did not want me falling in love. Not the kind of love she could not give me.
“Tell me, if I have.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I will kill her.”
“Ah,” I breathed out. “I can fuck anything with a hole, but love is not allowed.”
“The flesh and the heart are separated by bones for a reason, Rocco Fausti. We are allowed to love our arrangement, but any further than that, we might become weakened.”
“And you were not born to love that way.”
“No, I was not. I was born for you.”
That was the most romantic thing she had ever said to me, even if it was delusional.
“You are here for a reason,” I said, cutting to the heart of her appearance.
She nodded. “Your precious package. I have found the mystery woman who took it.” She gave me the address, then nodded. “The farmhouse that belonged to the Angeli family. Grazia’s brother decided to sell. I spent time with the woman who bought it. Remnants of your package were left on the kitchen counter. I had stopped to see Grazia’s brother before I came here. ”
My eyes narrowed, and I almost asked her to sing the words to me. It was as if she was telling the truth, but a version of it. I was not told that the house had sold, and the woman using my name infuriated me. Perhaps she was using it because she wanted the honor the name brought along with it. Her husband as well. The name Fausti could open doors that hands could not.
I turned to go, and Rosaria said to my back, “Go easy on her, lover! She is a tiny, spinning doll.” Then she started to laugh, the sharp and empty sound of it echoing along the streets of love.
My Ferrari left a dust storm in its wake as I raced uphill toward the Angeli Farmhouse. It was a spectacular piece of property, but I had my eye on a winery not far. It was a side passion of mine, and it made me breathe easier to think about spending time there. Rosaria wanted no part in the making of it, only in the drinking of it. It would be an endeavor I would go into solo.
My thing.
Most of my life was my thing.
I hit the brake at the top, coming to a smooth stop, if not abruptly. Dust floated in the air around me, and I stepped out without even bothering to slip on my jacket or smooth my hair. The sleeves of my button down were rolled up. A tree separated me from the farmhouse, but I could see the bottom portion of a woman, her skirt billowing out in the warm breeze.
“ Signora! Signora! ” I called, and then ranted in Italian about how it was not customary nor respectful to take packages that did not belong to you.
The body in the billowing skirt met me as I was going around the tree.
“Holy Mary,” she breathed out, stumbling back. Mere seconds later, she seemed to recover. “What are you doing here? How did you—h-how did you find me?”
My hand came down with a slap against my thigh. “You keep stealing my goods, Signora!”
She took a step toward me, studying me, almost in a drunken stupor, or perhaps she was tired.
In that second, though, it seemed like the entire world stood still. Even her dress flowed instead of taking flight. If my anger would not have blinded me, and my mind would have made it past the racing of my heart, I would have recognized her right away. But she looked different from the last time I had seen her.
“Ah.” I smiled. “Your hair.” I made a motion around my neck, referring to how different it looked.
Her eyes stilled on the tattoo on my arm. The Fausti insignia. A rosary with a lion in its open center, a sacred heart in its mane. It began at my pulse point and ended in the middle of my forearm. It marked me as one of theirs.
“What about my hair?” she snapped.
I resisted the urge to lift my hands in surrender. “It was longer. The last time I saw you.”
“When did you see me?”
“Ah, yesterday. I saw you leave the store. I went to Mario to claim my special items, he pointed at the door and told me that the beautiful signora that had come with me last time took them.”
“How did you find me?”
“You answer to the name Fausti. My name. Rosaria Caffi mentioned that a Fausti had purchased this villa. This beautiful signora with my last name was in the possession of my cheese and pears.” I looked down at her hand. “My Chianti also.”
“Oh.” She smiled. “We had those.”
“This is no matter.” I waved off the offense. She could carve my heart out, and my knees would drop at her feet.
Our eyes locked and a tender breeze moved between us.
Her hair was a dark auburn that reminded me of fall. When the sun filtered through the trees, it touched the strands and sparked. Her skin was as pale as snow. Her eyes, as green as jealousy, were feline shaped, fierce, so cat-like for this delicate creature. She had a ballerina’s build, but I could see how soft with curves she would become if she ever stopped the dance.
She was perfect.
An angel sent straight from heaven to my door.
The night in the witch’s tower came back to me. The scarf dancing delicately in the rough hand of the chilled winds.
“Your name?” she asked, her voice as sweet as candy.
I held out my hand and she took it. I kissed her knuckles, my eyes rising to meet hers. “Rocco Fausti. Give me your name. Apart from bella .”
She laughed, and her cheeks flushed scarlet. “Scarlett,” she said, and I almost sighed.
“Ah, Scarlett Poésy. The dancer.”
“You’ve seen me dance?” She laughed again, but it was lighter, more carefree.
“Yes, in Paris.” I smiled. “I thought I recognized you. Though I wasn’t positive. Tell me something, bella . You keep stealing my packages and using my name. What is the reason for this.”
“I didn’t—” She waved her left hand, and the sun hit her wedding rings, sending a sharp beam of light into my eyes. “Well, not really. A case of mistaken identity.”
Of course, her rings blinded me. Jewelry on a woman was a claim. Whoever the man was who had bestowed those rings upon her fingers wanted a man such as me to see them.
Doubtful the man knew I would kill him over this woman.
“Tell me that you enjoyed it,” I said.
“Yes. All of it was delicious. Grazie .” She shook the empty bottle at me to prove her point.
“I am no longer upset.”
“Good to know.”
I grinned, and she released a deep breath.
“Would you mind if we—” I cocked my head to the side, absorbing every inch of her. “Take a picture with me. You made such an impression. Your dance, I am referring to.” I wanted the picture because she was stunning. I also wanted the picture as proof. Whatever was going on was not as simple as this ballerina finding her way to Italy from Paris, using my name for packages, and buying my grandmother’s family home in the Tuscan hills.
“If you’ll stay for dinner.”
I smiled. “No even trade.” I left her to retrieve the camera from my car. When I returned, it was as if she had time to think, and whatever she was thinking went against her original plans.
“Listen,” she said, motioning for me to follow her to a terrace I was familiar with. “Do you mind eating outside? The weather is lovely, and it would be nice to enjoy it.”
True enough, but not the entire truth. I would not push her for it, though. “What are we having?”
She laughed, her cheeks heating again. “Your pears and your cheese—what’s left of them.”
“You are very beautiful when you blush,” I said. “Do not worry, bella . I have come to save the day. I have chicken, pasta, and some olives in my car. I was saving these to eat on the way home.”
“Perfect,” she said.
I invited myself into her kitchen after I grabbed the food from the car. Using pottery I had never seen before in the farmhouse, we plated everything together. We took our food on the back terrace, and while we ate, her eyes were on me, as if she were studying for a test. I did not mind it. Her attention felt nice. It was almost soothing, and so was her presence.
“Rocco,” she said, “tell me about yourself.”
I finished my bite and took a drink of Chianti. “I am an attorney in Florence. I spend my time between there and Maranello. Have you heard of it, bella ?”
“I have.”
I nodded, wiping my mouth. “I come from a line of racers.”
“Like who?” Her response came too fast, and she tilted her head, leaning on her arm, slipping a hand through her beautiful hair. She took a sip out of her glass, the red wine staining her lips.
“My father is Lucious Fausti. You have heard of him? ”
She blinked after a second. “I heard the name…somewhere before.”
My instincts were sharp and stabbing at me. She was keeping something from me.
“ Sì . He is…ah, good.”
“You? Do you race?”
“ A volte .” I laughed at how innocent she was in that moment. She was a mysterious combination of a woman and a girl. “I take care of the family affairs. Mostly.”
Our eyes locked. And a simple question came to mind from the silence that had stretched between us.
“Do you like what you see, bella ?” It was not truly a question, but a formal request for her to be honest with me.
“Yes.” She cleared her throat. “I mean, you are attractive, but you remind me of someone.”
“Ah. Mistaken identity.” I pinched her cheek, just to touch her again. I knew she would be the kind of woman who became pliable at my touch. “Do I please you?” I leaned in closer. She moved her head back, but it was not instant, and curiosity flooded those feline eyes. “You are beautiful,” I could not help myself from speaking the truth. “Let us take that picture now. A deal is a deal. A favor for a favor, ah?”
She nodded and seemed relieved that we were back on steady ground. I brought out the camera and situated it so we were both in the frame. She stood, as if we were going to take a picture next to each other. I took her tiny waist in my hands and pulled her close before she could put space between us. The camera snapped the photo.
“This is nice.” I looked the photo over. “So nice.”
Her phone rang, and she excused herself to answer it. I waved, unable to look away from the two of us and how we complemented each other, but I was still paying attention to her conversation, even if she did not think I was.
A voice that sounded like mine, deep and with a bit of rasp, said to her, “Hey, baby,” in an American accent .
“Hello,” she responded.
Silence came between them for a second.
“You’ve been drinking.” This from the American man.
“A little.” She laughed, but it melted quickly, like she was sobering.
“Tell me where you are.”
“A farmhouse in Siena.”
“By yourself.”
“No. Rosaria Caffi showed me the place.”
Ah. There she was. I knew it would not be long before her name came up.
“The opera singer,” the man said.
“That’s the one.”
“You’ve had too much to drink.” His responses were never questions, but observations—I admired that about him. His replies were right every time.
“Yes.”
“Come see, bella ,” I called, letting this man who had left this beautiful creature alone know that she was not, in fact, alone.
“Scarlett,” he said, a deep rumble in his voice.
“There are people here.” She hesitated for a few seconds. “What’s wrong, mio marito ?” She moved further into the yard. She did not want me to hear the rest of the conversation.
Her voice came out as whispers, and at one point, she turned and found me watching her. She hung up a second later.
“You did not have to rush on my account, bella .” I smiled at her when she returned to the terrace. “I have plenty of time.”
“Good.” Her voice sounded stronger, not as carried away with drink. The man had sobered her. “Why don’t you tell me…more about you?”
It was our first meeting, and even though I usually moved fast when I wanted a woman, slowly in the bedroom, I wanted to take my time with this one outside of it. She was worth it. Her eyes were warm pools and her mind fascinating, but she mostly wanted to know about me. She asked about my life, how it felt to grow up in Luca Fausti’s shadow. A question no woman had ever cared to ask me (no man either), and I found it freeing to talk about.
I found her freeing.
Before either of us knew it, midnight struck, and I offered to cook something for her the next time we were together. Not pasta. That would come in time.
She hesitated, and I had to catch her before she fully pulled away from me. I set my hand over her delicate one, but somehow, I knew her hands were as powerful as her spirit. “It will be edible,” I vowed.
“How about you come back tomorrow?” She slipped her hand from mine, rushing to fix her hair. “During the day?”
I took her hand before it came down and placed a chaste kiss on her knuckles. “ Prometto ,” I said, standing to leave. Before I did, I went to the car and gifted her a bottle of perfume.
“It is sensual,” I said, bringing it to her nose, watching in fascination as she closed her eyes and inhaled. “It matches your hair, ah?”
She thanked me, and I walked her to her door and waited as she shut and locked it. I could see her outline in the window, silhouetted by the buttery light from the farmhouse. She was watching me leave. My heart tugged in my chest as I grew closer to the Ferarri. It felt as if a part of me had been missing, and this woman had filled the cold emptiness with soft radiance.
This— she —was the first moment in my life that had ever filled a void inside of me.
It was instant.
Powerful.
And a barb did not even have to pierce me on the inside for me to follow it forever.
The feeling came as subtle as a move of her foot, but as powerful as the reaction to her entire dance. As the wind whipped through my hair and romantic music played on my radio, I thought back to the ballet, how she had moved me then. How she had moved me to stand, and tears had fallen from my eyes.
She was less than half my size and could move me with just a blink of her eye. My memories of her were no haunting ghost, forcing me to follow every time I remembered.
She was life.
Moving in and out of my beating heart, my bloodstream, my lungs. She brought about deep feelings—what it meant to live, and how it must feel to know love and to be loved.
However, that deep, rumbling voice on the other line was going to be a problem.
I sighed.
Life always came at the price of death.
If the man attempted to stop me from getting closer to my bella , I would kill him.