King of Italy (Fausti Family Royal)

17. An Echoing Conversation with Nonno

Chapter 17

An Echoing Conversation with Nonno

F austi business always went up. From the roots to the tip. All went to my grandfather, who was the entire tree, so to speak. And this was not ordinary business with my brother , Brando Piero Fausti, but it still took my grandfather some time to summon me to his home in Orvieto regarding it. Nonno lived on the outskirts of the walled city. He enjoyed wide open spaces and tending to his horses and gardens. Orvieto was located between Rome and Florence, in Umbria. It was three hours from Maranello, give or take.

As a young man, I would sword fight with him in a barn outside of one of his properties. An old farmhouse that was not far from the villa. He spent time at both places. He said one reminded him of his roots and the other of where he had reached in his life.

The place crawled with armed guards. None of them stopped me as the gates opened and allowed me entry. I pulled up the long drive, parking behind three cars ahead of me. Nazzareno, my cugino , was visiting. Nazzareno was Zio Lothario’s son. Lothario was my father’s second brother. Nazzareno and Nonno shared a special bond, along with features. My father reflected his father, and I reflected mine. Nazzareno, though, resembled my grandfather in his youth the most. Nazzareno was a pilot. I enjoyed my cousin’s company whenever he decided to land.

The woman who cooked for my grandfather, Agata, opened the door for me before I stepped out of my car. As she waved me inside, a melody of scents drifted out behind her, teasing my stomach and making it growl. She waved even harder when she heard it.

Agata repeated the sound my stomach made and waved a dismissive hand. “You will not go hungry! I will have plenty waiting for you when the meeting is over. Signore Fausti always has a healthy appetite after riding.”

Stopping at the door that led outside to my grandfather’s private heaven, I thanked Agata and then found my way to the fences, following a trail of shading lemon trees that created a canopy. At the end of the trail, the land opened, and white picket fences were arranged to keep the horses in. Nazzareno rested his hands against the wood and watched as Nonno rode his Friesian stallion in the largest yard.

The Friesian had a powerful build. Its mane and tail matched its silky black coat. His mane looked as if it had been crimped. Guerriero, meaning “warrior” in Italian, was his name. The Friesian horse had been considered a war horse when such things existed. My grandfather rode Guerriero as if the horse was still a battle horse, and he was a knight. My grandfather’s sword was draped at his side. I was not sure if it even moved when Guerriero showed his teeth and then stood up on his haunches, his hooves hitting air, before he touched ground again and my grandfather directed him toward the stables.

Nazzareno glanced over his shoulder. Noticing me, he stood straighter, and we embraced.

“ Cugino ,” he said. “It is good to see you.”

“You as well.”

We talked for a while about his latest trips, caught up on inner family, and then he nodded toward the area where my grandfather had gone .

“Still an excellent swordsman,” he said. “And on Guerriero, I could have mistaken him for a knight in medieval times. He only needs the armor to complete the picture.”

“He paints a picture of a time long gone.”

Nazzareno gave me a slow smile. “I did not know those days, but I miss those days. The swords. The romance. The ruthlessness. Even though I do appreciate the use of a bird in the air and a fast mustang, the kind with four wheels, on the ground in this time.”

“The best of both worlds.” I grinned at him.

We both became quiet as our grandfather walked toward us. Talk about knights and horses brought Brando to the forefront of my thoughts. The tattoo of the ribbon on his arm.

How fucking romantic it was to keep his lady’s ribbon on his body forever. She was with him even when she was not—a reminder of her love and a claim for other women to see. He had been marked by her symbolism. I wondered if Nonno would agree after he saw it. My brother and grandfather had not met yet. This was the reason for this meeting. I had to send the information up to him, even if father had controlled the first meeting between my estranged brother and me. Fate or not, suo padre had a hand in it as well.

This meeting was not specifically about my brother’s unannounced entrance into our famiglia . Even though Nonno had approved our challenge, he did not approve the stakes of it. He “requested” this meeting with me before we moved forward. Olivier Nemours and his family had made a broad claim—Brando was meddling in a deal that his wife’s mamma had made with Olivier. Brando was resisting the contract and causing problems.

It seemed Olivier Nemours and his family were willing to go to war over the ballerina.

She was a woman worth going to war over.

It was not safe to become presumptuous and foretell my grandfather’s thoughts and actions, but after he met Scarlett Rose Fausti, there was no doubt in my mind or heart that he would feel the same. She was going to ensnare him with those feline eyes and the way she could move him with her dance. However, I did not know how he was going to feel about her dancing in the underground clubs Olivier controlled. Scarlett Rose Fausti was the wife of one of our own, even if he had not been raised in our ways, and she did not belong in such places. Olivier and family were attempting to control her.

If any of my uncles would have an opinion on this situation, it would be Zio Ettore. He, along with my other three uncles, Lothario, Osvaldo, and Niccolo, would be attending the meeting. Even though Prozio Tito was my grandfather’s consigliere , his most trusted adviser, my gut told me Ettore had the most interest in this business. There was a lot of money tied up in Scarlett’s dance, and that changed the game, as far as my uncle’s involvement. Out of all my uncles, Ettore was the most business minded, and when it came to women and romance, he did not put much value in it. He was the male version of my wife.

There were times I would catch Nonno staring at Ettore during a family meeting, and it was not high regard that I saw but wariness. He felt what his second son was—ruthless above all else. My father was the rightful leader. He could see our famiglia into the future. Then he would pass the crown to me. The Fausti famiglia had managed to survive since the beginning of our time, and if the family fell into the wrong hands, perhaps it would shrivel from the roots upward.

Nazzareno and I straightened when Nonno approached. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his head. He nodded at us, slapping at both of our necks.

“We will eat first, grandsons,” he said. “Then Nazzareno will go, and Rocco and I will attend to business.”

I followed behind him, and Nazzareno followed behind me. As we made our way back to the villa, Nonno looked over his property, pointing at different spots and making verbal notes to pick the fruit that was overflowing on branches and prune his tomato plants. He did this to relax .

A kitten jumped out from the bushes at him. He laughed, making noises at the cat. “You are a fierce hunter, ah? Find the mice! Go on.” The kitten obeyed, running in the opposite direction, eyes lowered, searching for adventures in the wild.

Before we entered the villa, he stopped at the door, cleaning his boots on the mat. He turned his eyes toward the sun, and I could not help but to find myself in his eyes. The three of us, Nonno, Nazzareno, and I, shared similar colored irises. After he took in the sun, we walked behind him to the dining area. Agata brought out drinks for us, and as Nazzareno and I talked, Nonno went to wash.

After he returned, wearing a custom-made suit, we all sat and enjoyed lunch.

Nazzareno left, but all my uncles stayed for the meeting. In line of our births, we followed behind Nonno to his office, and then we all took seats around his desk. He had gone to his music player and turned on music that was reminiscent of Ancient Rome. It was not loud but present. Riding Guerriero always put him in a romantic mood, but it also seemed to make him sharper. As if he might have to draw his sword at any given moment and cut a man’s head off or slice his chest open to reveal the wasteful heart inside of it.

“Tell us, grandson,” my grandfather said in Italian, “not about your brother, but about what is going on with his wife and the deal with Olivier Nemours.”

I fixed my suit and leaned forward a little. “I have gone over the contract. It is made of iron. There is no fighting it, legally speaking.”

“Olivier Nemours is fighting to keep the dancer under lock,” Ettore said, taking my same stance.

I sat back out of respect. It was as if he held the floor.

“This tells us a great deal,” he continued. “She is worth a considerable amount to them.”

Ettore never hid his intentions in this room. He might have not said it, but what was implied gave me a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach. It felt as if a knife had been stabbed through it. He was not concerned with Scarlett’s well-being. His eyes were focused on the money side of it.

“I have heard about Olivier Nemours and his dancers. The family is pleased with what he brings in with these women.”

“Women,” my grandfather said. “He does not believe they are women.”

“No,” Ettore answered. “He sells the image that they are not from this world.”

My grandfather looked at me, and my uncle sat back.

“Tell me, grandson,” my grandfather said. “Is your brother’s wife not of this world.”

I took a moment to answer. It was wise to use words carefully around my grandfather and my uncles. “She is, of course, a woman made of flesh, blood, and bone, but there is something about her that is not of this world. She is worth living for. She is worth dying for. She can move men such as us with the look in her eyes and with the dance in her blood.”

“She is Maja’s granddaughter,” my grandfather said, not asking but stating fact. The look in his eyes was faraway, as if he was remembering a time gone.

It seemed as if, once upon a time, he knew the legendary ballerina. Of course he did. Marzio and Maja existed at the same time and in the same space. At the height of Maja’s career, perhaps my grandfather was the newest king of the Fausti family.

My grandfather thought about the conversation for a few minutes, then it was decided that my family wanted a meeting with my new brother. Our women were requested to join us, and if the request was denied, it was implied that we would no longer have them at our sides. It was Ettore who would give me the time and date. Romeo would deliver the invitation. My new brother was not going to appreciate this, especially the island in which we were to meet the family, but my grandfather’s word was law.

With the meeting over, we all stood after my grandfather, but he looked me in the eye and said, “We will walk. ”

Ettore looked between us but said nothing.

I fixed my suit as I followed behind my grandfather and uncles. Three of my uncles left. Ettore did not. He watched from a window, drink in hand, as my grandfather and I started to roam the property.

Ettore was going to be a problem. Not only were dollar signs blinding him when it came my brother’s wife, but Brando Fausti could challenge him for the position of king if he chose to. Ettore was next in line to rule, then me. My uncle trusted that I would follow the hierarchy. Allow him to rule until he could no longer. Brando Fausti had stormed our gates, not unlocking them with the key he held all along, but with force. Even though my grandfather did not speak to me about my brother, he had spoken to my uncles about him. I could tell by Ettore’s eagerness in the meeting. Perhaps he had planned to start a war with Brando so he could kill him. Or attempt to.

Brando was Luca Fausti’s son, as I was. It was said that my father could walk through a hail of bullets and see the other side of them. One man stated that he collected the bullets and sent them flying back as if they were arrows instead of balls of lead. We were not easy men to kill, even by our own blood.

However, after the impassioned speech Brando had given at my table, we all held the secret to his greatest strength and his greatest weakness. His wife. It would not be long before our family sniffed out this vulnerable spot inside of his chest and attempted to rip it out.

Perhaps his entire heart.

My grandfather sat his fedora on his head as he invited me to walk next to him along the trails that led to different sections of his property. It seemed as if his mind had already pointed him in a direction. We took the path that led to his tomato plants. The red fruit was plentiful, and his eyes grew bright at the size of them. A tender wind blew past us, and the spicy, earthy scent was so strong, it would cling to the fibers of our suits as cologne would once we were back inside.

“ Finalmente ,” he said. “ Pomodori! ”

He said this as one would say, “I have created fire!”

“Trouble with the tomatoes then, Nonno?” I asked.

“Ah,” he made a so-so noise. “The plants will give me such plentiful bounties such as these, and other times—ah.” He shrugged. “Pasquale tells me I must sing to them, but he is a poet. I tell them I will cut them down and move them if they do not do as I say. Produce fruit. You see. They do as I say.”

He was referring to Mac’s grandfather, the poet, Pasquale Ranieri.

Nonno removed his jacket, setting it on a bench across from the tomatoes, and rolled his sleeves up. He picked two of the ripest tomatoes. He handed me one and took the other for himself. He bit into his first and shook his head. I almost did the same thing.

“Perhaps singing the order to them will make them sweeter,” he said.

I agreed.

“This is the truth about pomodori ,” he said. “They are not a pushover fruit, ah? Look how they react in a hot pot. They fight back. Ah, well. Nature. This is why she is a woman. She can get away with being wayward.” He nodded to the bench. “Set your jacket there. Grab the two baskets. Harvest the fruit. Agata is a witch in the kitchen. She will entice them to be sweet for our dinner.”

We filled the two baskets and then he invited me to take a seat next to him on the bench. I wiped sweat from my brow with the inner side of my wrist. Neither of us had gotten any dirt on our suits, but we each had some streaks on our hands and underneath our nails. We might have been raised in ancient castelli and wore custom suits, but Nonno demanded that we kept close to our roots, whether the sun made us sweat or we felt the dirt that carried our boots beneath our feet.

My grandfather stared at the basket of tomatoes. “Your father gave up his life, our way of life, for the woman in America. I have never spoken about it with you, but it is time.”

I did not say anything. This was our way.

“My son had a son with her. Your brother. Who you now know as Brando Piero Fausti. He was not born into our ways, but I sense that our blood is strong inside of him. I will meet him and be the judge of this. However, your uncles are uncertain of his timing. Brando has never been proud of our name. All that he does, he does according to his own law. The space between his heart and our name is between your father and him. I will not get involved in that. Your father had a son with the woman and then allowed him to run free. A man of our blood needs to be tethered to our name to become the man he is meant to be.” His eyes moved from the basket to the mountains in the distance. “What lies between them lies between them.”

He used his inner wrist to wipe droplets of sweat from his brow, just as I had. “You were created to be a solider, my grandson. A prince. A king. You were raised in our life. You have sacrificed for it. I will acknowledge this. However, I have found truth to be harsher than a sword against flesh at times. This is our way. The only way I know. The only way you know. My ruling is this: I will decide after I meet your brother and his wife whether I will allow him access to his birthright. If I do, our rules will be his if he decides to challenge my son, or you, for the position of our future king. For your father’s sacrifices, even though he has dishonored our family, I have allowed him to make the choices regarding his family in America all these years. All that he has done for them, he has done out of love, out of the romance we regard so highly.

“Ettore has never agreed with this, and he does not now. He is becoming possessed with the thought of Luca’s estranged son taking his position. That will all play out on the stage of life. You and I will be either an active member of the cast or a person who has a seat in the audience.” He waved a dismissive hand. “I do not wish to speak of Ettore now, but of you, my grandson. You decided on the songbird as your wife to fulfill your duties to this family. I have met your wife. Danced with her. She is beautiful, but she does not possess the capability to be all your romantic heart desires. Even a flat man, one who does not fizzle with our romantico ways, can see the truth where the relationship between you and your wife is concerned. This is the sacrifice we make for our family, ah? We trade one desire for another.

“However, your brother has it all: he has choices in a family he has never claimed, and a woman who is worthy of a war, or so you tell me. But you, Rocco Piero, were created to be a part of this family, no matter your place in it. Remember that and do not allow anything or anyone to sway you. You have always wanted this family. Allow it to be your guiding force when a love your brother has cannot be yours. I have done this after the loss of my heart. I have lived for a different heart. We Fausti men are born into this world with two. The one we carve out for the woman we love. The one we keep— the one that roars inside of our chests. The echoes of times that we have inherited from our famiglia speaking to us in an ancient tongue. Remember who you are and what you were created for—an everlasting vow. This life. Our life.” He balled a fist and hit it against his heart. “ La mia parola è buona come il mio sangue.”

I hit my chest, just as he did, touching the tattoo across my pulse. “La mia parola è buona come il mio sangue,” I repeated, feeling the truth in those words warm my chest.

He nodded, finale . “You will stay here with your uncle and sort the details of our meeting with your brother. When the details are finalized, then, and only then, will you leave.” He stood, and I stood after him.

“Sedersi,” he ordered. He put his suit jacket back on and then picked up the two baskets with ease. “I will take these to the cucina. Agata will be glad to have them for dinner.” He glanced at them. “Perhaps.”

I took a seat, as he had ordered me to, watching him leave. He serenaded the tomatoes as he disappeared, his deep baritone as impressive as any man in the Caffi line. Even after Nonno had gone, it seemed as if his voice lingered behind him, stuck in that space of time with me. Entangled with the dirt on the ground and the heavy rays of sun beating down on me from an Italia sky. Mixed in with the spicy scent of tomatoes and the scents of two Fausti men—one cutting me with the sword of truth while my body absorbed the impact as it always did, without a shudder or flinch at the pain it had caused.

Sighing, I leaned over some, staring at my hands, at the dirt on the ground, at the hidden roots of the pomodori . Sweat ran from my temples and fell to the ground as if it was raining, mixing with the blood of the fruit.

The chain around my neck, the one with the lion pendant, stood out against it all. My carved-out heart had been preserved.

My grandfather was not plainly speaking to me. He was speaking to me in a language we shared. It was both ruthless and romantic, and I understood it without him having to explain it in laymen’s terms.

My older brother was conceived out of love.

My brothers and I were made from duty. Out of expectations. We were born to serve the family.

My older brother would get the king’s feast, while I received whatever was left over, even if I had set the food at the table.

I would remember my place in this life, whatever the future decided. I would remember it and honor it.

It is what a Fausti was born to do.

The gold around my neck absorbed the warmth in my chest, while the blood in my veins ran cold.