15. What is Hidden is not Always in the Darkness
Chapter 15
What is Hidden is not Always in the Darkness
M y wife leaned against the Giulietta balcony of our home in Maranello, her voice a breathy whisper as she hummed “ O mio babbino caro” . Hummed, not given me an aria that would send me staggering behind her. Her truth was quiet in the tender morning light that broke around her as she ran her fingertips softly, slowly, across the warm stone. A tender breeze flowed through her dark locks like a comb through silk. Two tear drops ran down each cheek, crystallized in the light to salt.
We both understood her quiet held meaning. Whatever was coming today had unnerved her. Perhaps this was why she shed a tear. This change would affect her, and she could not see a way out of it, and her heart was stomping in her chest as her foot would if it would not be such a childish and foolish thing to do.
The sad sight of her inspired me to go to her, wrap my arms around her shoulders, and whisper in her ear, “Whatever comes today, I am stronger, my wife.”
She stepped out of my embrace, turning to face me, her arms crossed like a petulant adult. “Even you are not stronger than fate, my lover,” she said in Italian. “Even you are not stronger than traditions. History. Rules.” She waved a hand .
A loving wife would have prepared her husband for the truth instead of giving him clues to decipher.
Rosaria left me alone on the balcony and disappeared from our room entirely.
It took me a moment to move, to leave the view of the property I had inherited from my grandmother’s family and prepare for what was to come. Like the hand that stitches the fabric of life with a tale to pass down to generations, my father was weaving this story as he wanted it to look, fate helping him.
Even a man such as I knew fate had the strong hand, and when the time was right, it would push us in the direction we were meant to go in. I was moved by fate. The romance of it. This was why I dressed for the day and waited for the time to come.
Two hours late.
Rosaria’s Ferrari pulled into the drive. Scarlett had tied her hair back and hid her eyes under sunglasses. Even from my spot behind the window, I could tell she was not herself. She seemed shaken. Almost broken. She was alone. Her hands trembled as she removed the scarf and fixed her hair and face in the mirror.
I did not even bother to run through the reasons her husband had not driven her. My father knew. That was all I needed to know. I would deal with the situation as it came.
Donato stopped me as I came down the steps. “Her husband,” he said. “He did not ride with her, but he is on the property. He is driving a Ducati.”
“Allow this to play out,” I said in Italian. “Do not intervene. I will handle the situation.”
He allowed me to glimpse the uncertainty in his eyes, but he knew better than to challenge me.
My wife was nowhere to be seen, but she was not far, watching the drama, perhaps singing an impassioned aria as it unfolded.
I opened the door slightly, watching from my spot as Scarlett climbed the steps. It was as if she was willing herself to keep going, keep climbing, and it took all her strength to do so. She almost seemed dizzy, especially after her husband started to climb them behind her. It was as if she felt him in her bloodstream, and it was making her too warm for her own body.
The husband met her on the final step. “So this is it,” he said, removing a folded photograph from his back pocket. “This is where you go to fuck him.”
My body stiffened at the disrespect. His woman had been nothing but respectful to him. She was a woman, nothing less. A familiar stiffness started to harden my shell, my soul, while the blood in my veins turned to lava. I would kill this man for much less than what he had just said.
However, I was not done watching their interaction. This was not a usual situation. And my father had his hand in it.
Scarlett’s mouth opened, as if she were searching for the right air in a world where he would speak to her in such a way. He sneered in response. He held out the photograph, and she took it, her eyes hungry to see what evidence he had presented her with. I already knew. It was the picture I had sent to my father of the two of us.
Her eyes flashed to her husband’s, and they seemed to share an unspoken language. He answered the look.
“Luca Fausti,” he said. “He had a fine time with that one.”
This was my cue to step outside, allowing the door to give me away, though I had a feeling the man had already sensed me close. He was of Fausti blood—that I was sure of. He had all the right features, down to his build. And for his woman, he had planned to kill me .
“ Bella ,” I breathed, fully taking her in. Not for his benefit, but for hers. He could do with it as he pleased. The look on her face stopped me from moving closer. It was as if I had spoken to her as her husband had. “Are you all right, bella ?”
She shoved the picture at me, and it was as if she shoved me and moved me. I took a step back.
“Why?” she shouted. “Why would you send this to that…bastard! ”
I took the picture from her. “ Bella ,” I said and went to touch her.
“Don’t call me that! Don’t touch me!” She put her hands up in a defensive posture. “Why? Tell me why!”
“I have to,” I whispered, hating that this woman was hurting because of something my family seemingly did. “You are from where he is. The situation is too much of a coincidence not to be one. You claim my last name.”
“You lied to me, Rocco.”
She allowed me to place a hand on her shoulder, and with all the truth I was capable of, I vowed to her, “I never lie. My word is as good as my blood, Scarlett.”
It was as if touching her had brought her to another world, and the thoughts behind her eyes were moving as fast as dominos falling until she got to the reason her world was collapsing around her.
“No, no, no, Brando!”
As quickly as her feet could move on the dance floor, but even faster, she flung herself at Brando’s—her husband’s—chest. She took his shirt in her hands, her knuckles turning white from the strain, as if she was strong enough to stop him from coming after me.
I dared him to.
“Listen to me.” She shook him, as if she were trying to shake a mountain. “You have to listen to me, mio marito . I went back to Pienza, remember? After we went? I was so lonely without you. I didn’t want to tell you because I wanted a whole man! When we returned to Italy from Natchitoches, the loneliness I felt for you seemed to close in on me, more than before. And I felt comfortable there, in Pienza. I kept dreaming of it, so I went back. Do you remember the man that gave us the package, at the deli? He thought you were someone else, but he called your name. He gave me another package because he remembered me. Afterward, I went to a pottery store and almost bought them out. I needed something—I needed to do something for you. It’s all I could think about. I hated that you came home to an apartment. That you traveled all those miles and all I could offer you was…a temporary place.
“Then Rosaria Caffi found me in the street, and she took me for a ride in her Ferrari. She told me that I was too thin, that you were making me that way with too much sex. I told her that if she was married to you, she wouldn’t mind either, but then she said she had a beast of her own, but he fed her pasta to make up for it.”
My eyes rose to find my wife standing at the window. When our eyes connected, she wiggled her fingers at me. My eyes flew back down to the situation in front of me.
“One thing led to another, and she took me to the villa.” She swallowed so hard I heard it. “I fell in love with the idea of it. Everywhere I turned I could imagine us…there. Oh God. I wanted you to be proud of me. I wanted you to come home to a place you could be proud of, until it was time to really go home. I wanted to cook for you. To give you a place you could enjoy with me. When we had to go to Vultera, it wouldn’t be much of a drive. We wouldn’t have to fly. That’s all you do! I wanted you to break the surface…with me. And when the time comes that we can finally go home, we’ll have the new place for summers. Nothing more. That’s when Rocco?—"
When Scarlett said my name, this Brando visibly steeled himself, as if he could not bear to hear any name come out of this woman’s mouth other than his. How romantic he was. How ruthless. A feeling stirred in my gut at the sight of the two of them. It was racing toward my heart.
“—found me. Rosaria told him where to find me. She knew…she knows something. We had dinner, that’s all. Just dinner. It wasn’t romantic.” She took a breath. “Oh, just look at him!”
This man refused to see me, as I had been refusing to see him. I still did not see him entirely, but the relationship between he and his wife. It was causing my heart to knock against my ribcage. It was as if I was watching extinct animals, a mating pair, come to life before me .
The ballerina rose on her feet gracefully, putting her mouth against his neck. “Look at him, my husband,” she pleaded. “ Please. Really look at him.”
The bella ballerina was minuscule in comparison to him, and I wondered if he was physically hurting her without realizing it. Deep inside of her, he knew he was.
“Is he hurting you, bella ?” I took a step closer.
He itched to strike at me. He would reconsider the impulse if he did.
“Keep your distance,” Scarlett said to me, her voice full of control, but underneath the surface, I felt more than heard the tremble. She was barely keeping this beast of a man back.
This tiny ballerina could stop a mountain from moving. I was not surprised, but it was a phenomenon to see in real time.
“Tell me who he is to you, Scarlett,” Brando demanded.
“No, not to me. To you .”
“Tell me, Scarlett,” he demanded again.
“He’s the one who feeds Rosaria pasta. Rocco is her husband. He’s one of your three brothers, mio marito .”
The truth hit me with such force, at first, that I thought the man had. But it was simply the truth. Truth powerful enough to alter the rest of my life.
My eyes could not take in Brando…Fausti fast enough.
He could not take me in fast enough.
We were both suspicious, taking in every line of face, builds, even down to the way we were being judge and jury toward this shocking truth.
We were brothers.
And we were about to kill each other before we were properly introduced.
Neither my father or grandfather had been forthright with me about this situation, and it mattered none in that moment. This man had been hidden from us, and sooner or later, the full truth would be hidden no longer, but we had been pitted against each other .
My wife.
She had organized this.
She had brought these two lovers into our lives. And even if she had not been in direct contact with my father, she had made sure he knew. My father had been testing me. Donato’s arrival with the photograph and note proved to him that I could still be trusted.
Without turning my eyes away from this man, I sent a command to the nearest man to meet me outside. Three of them did. I spoke to Guido, since he was the first in charge underneath Donato. Their eyes pinged between Brando Fausti and me, as if the resemblance was astounding. I gave Guido a sharp command to bring my wife to me.
Rosaria exited the house as if she were a queen. She opened her mouth to speak, but her ruthless king was too fast for her. I turned, forcing her against the wall—her eyes bright, her lips parted—and set my hand around her throat as I breathed out the next words.
“ Mio fratello.” My brother. “Il mio sangue.” My blood. “ Non me l’hai detto.” You didn’t tell me.
My wife could not speak but was enjoying this scene all too greedily. I could smell her desire in the air. I glanced at Scarlett before I turned back to Rosaria. “Never that one,” I said. “Do not even try it.”
A slow smile came to Rosaria’s face, knowing I meant what I had said. She would cross a line that could not be uncrossed if she attempted to taint a woman who had the power to paint the world in all different shades, not only red. But I had something in store for my wife. I bit at her nose and promised her later .
“Ah,” I breathed out, turning back to my brother and his wife. I would direct my next words at him, but I kept my eyes on hers. “It seems we have business to discuss.”
“Seems that way,” Brando said.
Brando Piero Fausti, who was one of us but spoke with an American accent and was not baptized in our ways. Romeo had been right.
Rosaria and I entered the castle together, my brother and his wife behind us. Scarlett’s heels tapped on the marble floors, as if her feet could create beautiful melodies. My men were entranced by her, and sensing my “brother” would not appreciate this, seeing as he had pulled his wife to his side, I ordered the men to leave us.
We ended the tour in the showroom. It housed all our most valuable Ferraris.
Rosaria took Scarlett by the hand and led her to a stool. I faced off with my brother—same height, same face, same body, except his eyes were dark where mine were light, and my mouth spoke Italian while his spoke English—in front of the collection of Ferraris. A few belonged to our father during his racing days.
“ Saperate che condividiamo sangue? ” Did you know that we share blood? I asked my brother.
Our conversation took place in Italian.
“No,” he answered.
“Father never mentioned it?”
“Never,” he said. “You?
“Never. Do you understand what goes on here?”
“I am well informed,” he said.
“Do you race, my brother?”
“That is a term earned from respect. I am nothing more to you than an enemy.”
No matter if he felt the term “brother” was earned or not, it did not take from the blood we shared that ran through our veins. However, we could agree on respect being earned. I did not know him, as he did not know me. As with our ways, I would challenge him to find out what he was made of.
“We agree.” I nodded. “A wager then. If respect is earned.”
“Give me the game.”
“What would you prefer?” This man was intense, and after all the pent-up aggression he had been storing, there was no doubt he would go for a fight. He was built for it. The ruthlessness in his veins demanded it.
“A fight.”
I smirked. “You are quite barbaric. An asset. We do not call to arms any longer, unless forced, of course. It is against the rules, unless we go through the proper channels. A race. This is honorable.”
“It’ll do. Name your wager.”
“Ah.” This was where I would test my brother’s blood and the truth in what I had witnessed between he and his wife on my step. And if he accepted my proposition… “One night with your wife.”
My brother’s stare was as unwavering as mine. But when he shrugged, so carelessly, so like our father, the likeness hit me square in the chest. I knew what came after. I was prepared for it.
“Tell me what you would do with my wife.”
I turned my head toward the woman we were wagering over, licked my lips, then turned back to my brother. I was honest. All that I had fantasized would be at my fingertips. “She will dance for me. Then I will make love to her. For hours.” I turned to the bella ballerina. “I will not hurt you, bella . Unless, of course, you desire it.”
I braced myself.
My brother hit me with the force of a Fausti, and we both growled, the inner animals in us ready to shed blood, but I had caused the first cut. My brother removed a knife from his back, pinning me against the wall, the cold steel to my throat. Even though my eyes were locked on his, light against dark, I still knew his woman was attempting to stop us. My wife was keeping her back.
Brando spoke to me in our shared language, daring me to come close to his wife again without his permission. He repeated our motto back to me. Claiming his wife was his blood and bone. He would spill my blood, or any other, that dared to come between him and his wife.
He nicked my throat with the sharp edge of the blade, causing my blood to spill, as I had caused blood to spill from his heart when I had spoken of his wife in such a way—disrespecting him by offering him a mere wager for a love he was willing to live and die for. My rich blood, which he shared, ran down my throat, staining my white shirt.
My heart pounded in my chest as if he had cut me there, spilling my lifeblood. This man, this Brando Fausti, was not raised in our ways, baptized in this life. He did not wear the symbol of our family on his skin or speak as we did. Yet he was as powerful as if he had been raised with us our entire life. I sensed then that he was older than me.
By right, he would rule this family.
The tears that Rosaria shed earlier came back to me—I imagined blood instead of salt rushing down her cheeks. They were caused by the thought of becoming second in the family.
“ Capisci , mio fratello ,” Brando said, the two last words, my brother , mockingly.
My eyes were hard on his. “If not your wife, name the stake.”
“Me,” Brando said, taking a step back.
I fixed my suit, refusing to allow this scene, or the news that this man might rule instead of me, to dishevel me. “Ah, let me guess. Father wants you.”
“Always has.”
Of course. He was the oldest. This was his birthright, and somehow, he was not forced to honor it. “You will do. I am sure of it. Though, I will have to speak to him first.”
“Be my guest.”
“Settled. However, you have not set your price. If you should win, that is.”
Brando turned to his wife and met her eyes. “You buy my wife out of a contract with a man named Olivier Nemours. I’ll buy it from you for almost nothing.”
“That will take some considerable force.” The pieces all fell into place with my wife. She had been in Paris. She had attended a party hosted by Olivier Nemours. “He is connected.”
“Yeah, I’m looking forward to it.”
“A Fausti, through and through.” I grinned. Despite my feelings toward him, he was a Fausti, and deep inside of my heart, one day, I knew we would both be honored to call each other blood—to call each other fratello . “ Sì . I will see what can be done.”
“One more thing,” my brother said.
“You are worth quite a bit, I am sure, but not much more than the contract. However, your wife?—”
“My wife chooses the car I drive. After I win, it’s hers.”
I laughed and touched my brother outside of malice for the first time. “ Sì . Done.” I waved our wives forward with us. “We can discuss the where and when later. Now, you still have two others to see. I am sure they will be as pleased as I am to meet you.”
Dario and Romeo were waiting in the dining room for us. Right as we approached the threshold, both men stood and fixed their suits. Even though I knew my brothers were tempted to stare at Brando, they stared at me, waiting for my next words.
I nodded. “Brando Fausti, Dario Fausti, Romeo Fausti.”
The three men only nodded at each other. Then they openly studied one another. We all did. It was astounding how one man could have created the four of us all in his image, yet, we all had differences. Slight as they were.
“You are the oldest,” I said to Brando in Italian.
He gave me his birthday. August. I was born November of the same year.
“You will be leading us now,” Romeo said to him, and his eyes flicked to me.
Brando pulled a seat out for his wife, but Rosaria asked her if she would like to see the kitchen of the castle. The look in Brando’s eyes was uncertain.
“The men will not even speak to your wife,” I said.
Scarlett squeezed his arm and nodded.
He stared at his wife, then nodded. He looked at my wife. “The kitchen.”
“No further.” She directed Scarlett outside of the room .
My eyes were narrowed against my wife’s back. She was speaking the truth to him. I did not miss the respect in her voice when she did.
Brando removed his jacket, placing it over a chair, and rolled his sleeves up. He had a tattoo of a ribbon wrapping around his lower arm. It reminded me of a knight who collected a ribbon, a token, of his woman’s love before he went into battle for her—a good luck charm. My brother took the seat opposite of the head of it, sitting first. “No,” he said, his voice firm. “I’ve never wanted any of this.” He waved a hand around the room, encompassing all that came with the Fausti throne.
I took the seat at the head of the table. Dario and Romeo sat beside me. There were four of us, and our positions at this table reflected our positions in the family. Brando was older, but by mere months, though technically speaking, it was enough for him to challenge me for my spot.
“Yet you are here,” Dario said, motioning to him.
“I am here,” Brando agreed. “Not because of this family. Because of Olivier Nemours.”
“You mentioned this,” I said. “What is the deal?”
“My wife,” and the two words were said with a proprietary claim, but there was also awe between the lines. This man, without our family’s influence, had found a way to balance his blood through this woman.
I had sensed that about her. She was the fire in his veins and the blood inside his heart. His lion belonged to her. My heart had recognized the power inside of her to become a man’s entire world. Even if it did not roar in my chest, it had spoken the truth to me. I should have known, then, that my fascination with their relationship would lead me down the darkest roads of my life.
My brother, first in line to claim my spot as oldest son, first to reject our blood in such an open way, had the love I had always craved.
A woman who fed both sides of her man—the romantic and the ruthless .
It was as if my brother had sensed my thoughts. His eyes came to mine and refused to leave. It was not disrespectful, or challenging, if our conversation kept to this same vein, but he was studying me as I was openly studying him.
“My wife is a ballerina, as you know, and he found her in Paris and took advantage of her.”
The three of us sat up taller, and his eyes flared with something—something like kinship in this protectiveness we had toward women.
“He touched her,” Dario said.
“ Fratello would have killed him, if he had,” Romeo said, the honorable word easily slipping from his lips.
Both of my brothers were in awe of him, but in different ways. Dario was wondering how he had slipped through our family’s hold and become the man he was despite it. Romeo was admiring his hair.
I was in awe of him as well—he held all I had ever craved in his heart and his hands, besides ruling this family.
Love, as simple and complex as it was.
Brando nodded and spoke our shared language. “I do not have an army, soldiers ready to battle at my word, but I will kill him. I will steal his heart one day for what he has put my wife through.” He hit his chest. “My honor.”
I sat closer to the table, steepling my fingers, resting them against my chin. “Tell me how much you know about the Nemours.”
Brando grinned. “Enough to know I despise the entire family.”
“Your instincts are correct,” Dario said.
“We have warred with them before,” Romeo added. “Not often. And not about a Romeo and Juliette. But we have.”
“Warred would not be the correct term,” I said. “Disputes. Minor ones.”
“This is not minor,” Brando said. “This is over my wife.”
The three of us became quiet .
“You mentioned a contract?” I shattered the silence.
Brando nodded at me. “An honorable term for what exists between him and I. My wife is required to dance in his underground clubs.”
My eyes shot to his. “The woman in Volterra.” The entire picture came into focus then. My brother’s wife. She had two sides just as he did. The prima ballerina and the alluring kitten. Her hair made the difference, throwing her in stark contrast when I compared the two.
His eyes fired back. “You’ve seen her.”
I nodded. “My wife was invited.” I remembered the look in Olivier’s eyes when I had made an offer for her. He was a man possessed. This situation was already tangled in knots. The Nemours would not battle over small fires, but Olivier was entranced. He might have even believed the lies he fed to his patrons. I was close to believing them.
At his club and outside of it.
Even in the daylight, she was alluring in a way that seemed not of this world.
“The race,” Brando said, bringing us back to the beginning of the conversation while simultaneously ending it. He stood and we all followed, fixing our suits. “When I win, I want the contract.”
As he was leaving, I ordered Romeo to see him out.
Brando grinned at me. “I know exactly where my wife is—at all times.” He tapped against his chest. “My feet follow the beats of my heart. No matter where, when. I will always be led to her. She .” He pounded his chest. “Scarlett Rose Fausti . The reason I live. The reason I will die.” He left us, the scent of his cologne lingering after he had gone, like smoke.
Dario cleared his throat. “He is ruthless.”
“He is romantic.” Romeo sighed.
“Created in the image of our father, just as we were.” I fixed my suit once more, the shoulders suddenly too tight, and then went to find my wife.