1. A Storm that Would either Break Against the ShoreKill Us
Chapter 1
A Storm that Would either Break Against the Shore or Kill Us
I blinked, bringing the current moment of my life into focus.
Rosaria was sitting at the counter in our bathroom in Maranello. It was spacious enough and had enough lights to serve as a vanity. More luxurious than any of her private dressing rooms. She was speaking Italian to the woman who not only styled her hair but covered the streaks of silver in it with false color.
Even if the woman attempted to conceal it, Rosaria could not hide who she was. Especially after the sands of time had eroded the somewhat caring nature she once had for those closest to us.
Even her sons.
She was hiding from this woman the raging storm inside of her. A storm that would later come out through her mouth and her actions, tearing apart the recipient of her ruthless words and callous nature.
Tonight, she would meet the woman Massimo had already pledged his life to. Chloe. I would stand as the shore that took the impact of Rosaria’s surge and reduced her winds.
Occasionally, Rosaria’s narrowed eyes would meet mine through the mirror, giving me a look that meant she hated me for allowing the marriage. For allowing our son to know love and return it. For allowing him to give up the throne for it. For standing in her space and challenging her.
I did not narrow my eyes in return or give her any reaction. She had long ago drained me of those. I only stared back, and when she could not hold it, she turned her eyes back to herself. Where she always felt the most comfortable.
She laughed and waved her hand. She was looking forward to moving into my father’s walled city and taking over his ancient castello that had been there for centuries. She spoke of redoing the entire place to the woman flittering around her.
It was not her place to do as she wished with it. My father still lived in it. For the foreseeable future, I would rule from Maranello. Perhaps when the time came for me to decide where I ruled, or what to do with the walled city, I would allow my son and his wife to live in the ancient castello .
As if she had heard my thoughts, Rosaria narrowed her eyes at me and her hands turned into claws, digging into her legs. She had developed stronger reactions to my non-reactions. It seemed to anger her more than when I had reacted. Her tantrums had reached colossal levels. Her anger was no longer contained inside of her. She lashed out at me, going for my heart. I gave her my chest, if she wished to carve it out, but she would only cause me stitches.
She thought herself a Fausti.
A Fausti would have the courage to go deeper and steal what was left of it straight from my chest.
However, she had gone the Caffi way, going against the rules I set, when she started to fall for a man in New York. A man whose heart was stolen from his chest before he stepped into the tub, his blood pooling around him instead of water. A reminder was left. Her picture in the cavity of his empty chest.
My heart had made that ruling long ago, and she had defied it—if she should love without barbs, she would not love at all. It was not done out of honor, as it usually was, but out of spite.
I did not believe even love could save us any longer. La fedeltà . Loyalty to the famiglia was the only vein connecting her to me and me to her. Just as she had wished it.
The stylist packed up her things and went to slip past me. Our eyes connected, and in the connection, I recalled her warm body against mine, her lips satisfied with the temporary pleasure between us. She was not hungry for a heart connection, but a bank-account-to-money one.
Rosaria watched us, a knowing grin on her face.
Perhaps the woman had been between Rosaria and another lover. The timing of our affairs held the truth of this: if I tasted my wife through the woman or if my wife tasted me through her.
After removing her silk robe, Rosaria turned around slowly, lifting her arms, naked. “See, amante .” The grin grew bolder when her turn was complete, and she set her hands against her thighs. “No weapons. Not that it would even take one made of steel to hurt the daughter of a whore.”
“Dress,” I ordered.
She sighed. “You will handle the zipper,” she said as she removed the dress from a mannequin that was molded to her body measurements and stepped inside of it. She held the top close to her breasts as I found the blind zipper and secured her inside of it. The dress was red and black. Florals in patterns that mimicked a mosaic masterpiece made it seem as if she was wearing the window art of a gothic chapel.
She shivered and blinked at me when my skin touched hers. She was defiant, but somewhere deep inside of her, she knew my body still ruled hers. I had made the claim, and it had stuck.
She stared into my eyes from one of the many mirrors, whispering, “We are still the most beautiful couple; just look at us, amante .” She sang a melody to me that was opposite of who we were together—ruthless.
Barbs from not that long ago snagged and pulled, as if I was a fish on a hook.
She had made a claim on me as well.
In this, we were entangled.
The song ended, and fresh air seemed to make it to my strangled mind. I blinked at her, then nodded to her black heels. She slipped them on, and after, I took her by the arm and moved toward the bedroom door. She stumbled a bit, being dramatic, as if I were yanking her, and said, “The daughter of a whore will not melt if we are late.”
“Chloe,” I said.
She rolled her eyes and said in a childish voice, “ Chloe .” She snatched my hand and dug her claws into my skin.
Our guests lingered at the bottom of the steps, their eyes lifting as we made our way down. I did not want to be on the step with Rosaria, as if we were making a united front. I took the step below her. I did not move my hand, but kept it firmly where she had it, as we descended. She kept her face up, nose pointed, as if she were a queen and the peasants were to sigh at first sight of her. She soaked up the attention from our guests as if she were a dried sponge.
My heart was numb. My skin was numb.
With our feet on the marble floor, we separated. She began to kiss cheeks. I took a napkin from a passing server to wipe the blood from my hand. A few of her marks had broken skin, and I did not want blood on my guests’ hands and clothes from me. Once the moon-shaped wounds clotted, I greeted our guests as well.
Massimo held close to his heart as he navigated the crowd. I would have preferred Rosaria and Chloe’s first meeting to be private, our family only, but Rosaria needed more fanfare—she needed to be the center of attention.
Rosaria intentionally placed herself next to me as Massimo presented his bride. She was a fair woman, as fair as the sky on a bright spring day, with wispy blonde hair, even her eyebrows and eyelashes; vivid blue eyes; and pale skin. I did not smell perfume on her but an earthly scent lingering on her hands from paint. Her dress was a shade dimmer than her eyes .
Before I could take her hand, tell her what a pleasure it was to have her inside of my home, her arm flew out, offering her hand.
“Oh, shoot!” She looked at Massimo. “I was supposed to wait,” she whispered.
I took her hand and brought it to my mouth, the smell intensifying to the point I could smell chemicals mixed in with the paint. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Chloe.”
She giggled. “It’s so nice to see you again, Mr. Fausti!”
Rosaria stiffened at her use of Mr. instead of Signore . A look passed between Rosaria and Massimo. It was lethal enough that Massimo’s hold on Chloe’s lower back intensified. Chloe was not expecting it. She took a step forward, not on purpose, but my son’s touch was insistent and ever present. However, Rosaria Caffi was his mamma, and respect had been instilled in him.
Massimo took his mamma’s hand, bringing it to his mouth. “Mamma,” he said reverently. He stood, presenting Chloe to her. I could feel his hesitation. He felt as if he was presenting a lamb to a rabid hunter. “Chloe De Bourbon.”
“Chloe De Bourbon,” Rosaria repeated, as if she were testing the sound of it, but finding it lacking, was about to spit it out.
Chloe extended her hand much too quickly to Rosaria. Rosaria’s eyes dropped slowly to the offering. Her nose wrinkled. “You smell like paint, girl. It is in your hair.”
“Oh.” Chloe touched the strands, not sure where to look. “I didn’t realize. Sometimes not even shampoo gets it out.”
My son looked over her hair, as if he had done it before, but could not find any specks. Perhaps he had never truly noticed. To him, her paint reflected the colors of her heart and were a part of her. To him, it was as if Rosaria was pointing out Chloe had fingers.
“I should go—” Chloe’s eyes were frantic, looking for an out. Her cheeks were a ruthless red from embarrassment. “Go clean up.”
“This way,” Massimo said, pointing her in the direction of one of the bathrooms .
“This is such a fancy party,” I heard Chloe say as she was led away. “And I made a fool?—”
Massimo took her hand and kissed it. “You are the most stunning woman in this room to me .”
A server stood next to me, holding a private tray of drinks. I took one, staring at the line my son and his heart had made through the crowd. Rosaria’s eyes were on me.
“ That is what you approved for your first-born son, Rocco Fausti,” she hissed at me. “That—” she pointed a hand in the direction my eyes were locked on “—plain daughter of a whore! For a king! Cha! She cannot even speak properly. Or clean herself properly. She wears rags to a ball in her honor. She is not fit for any of your sons. Any of them! She is not even fit for a street artist in Paris. She is subpar on all levels. And this is who the future king of the Fausti famiglia will marry?” She made a disbelieving noise. “Your father is allowing this as well! That woman, Maggie Beautiful ,” she childishly mimicked her moniker, “has ruined his taste. She is what your uncles have said her to be. A strega ! I cannot understand all of this otherwise.”
“You should talk with my father about this,” I said as I moved away from her and began conversations with more guests.
My father and Margherita were on the other side of the affair. Guests had lined up to greet him. Dario and Romeo, along with their wives, kept close to my father and his wife. Brando and Scarlett were unable to attend. Matteo was fighting a war to claim his heart, the woman the Nemours had made everyone in the underground scene believe was a real star. My brother did not want to be far from his son.
Rosaria did not approach my father about her issues with his wife. Or his approval of my son marrying Chloe. After her first greeting of my family, she rushed to hers, putting a hand on her sister’s arm and whispering as if they were conspiring. Abree had never gotten over Dario not chasing her until she submitted, slipping a larger diamond on her left hand. The two sisters had always fed each other when one was lacking. Essentially, they were the same in all things, except for the differences in their physical appearances, as slight as they were.
My eyes were on them. I did not even move my focus when Mac came to stand next to me, his wife, Mari, next to him.
“This is such a beautiful party, Rocco,” Mari said, smiling at me. “I’m sure Massimo and Chloe will appreciate it.”
I nodded at her.
Even though my attention was focused elsewhere, I did not miss the look Mari sent to Mac, or the way he studied me afterward with a resigned sigh. He had been keeping closer to me as of late. He was to be what Prozio Tito had been to my grandfather all those years ago, just as his son, Saverio, would do the same for my nephew, Matteo. Father and son were trusted in our famiglia , and the marriage of my niece, Mia Bellarosa to Saverio, tied the knot that would always connect our family to theirs.
As if this thought had summoned them, my niece and her husband came to stand next to us. Mia called me Padre and, lifting on her toes as a graceful ballerina would, placed a soft kiss on my cheek. Her husband greeted me next. Saverio’s sister, Evelina, was right behind them. Her man, who everyone called Wolf, kept close to her.
Wolf was one of the Seven Deadly Sins, an elite and secret group of Russian assassins. Brando and Scarlett’s youngest son, Maestro, would be marrying into part of that life when he was of age. His marriage had been arranged by Wolf’s boss, Lev. The future marriage was the main reason my father allowed the Russians so close.
A conversation began, and the entire time, my niece held her hand on my arm as if she was attempting to warm my frozen skin. Mia Bellarosa was touched, as her mamma was. I did not want her to worry over me. I set my hand over hers and patted it occasionally. She did not buy it and sighed as Mac had.
Before long, our group merged with my father’s group. His brothers and their wives. Niccolo, as usual, was on the hunt for a woman whose desires were not filled. He would fill them for her. He was the youngest of my father’s brothers, and the expectation of him to marry did not exist. He did not have any sons or daughters—I patted Mia’s hand—and that was not expected of him either. He was so far down the line, he did not matter much. Especially after my father had four sons.
Massimo and Chloe joined our group. Chloe still had specks of paint in her hair. My son would not allow her to wash them clean. She was not confident in his opinion of this. She continued to touch her hair, her wary eyes darting around the party for her future mother-in-law. My son pulled her even closer and took both of her hands in his, keeping them safe within his. She sighed and visibly relaxed.
Before we sat for dinner, I squeezed his neck, allowing him to feel how proud I was. The joy in watching him be the man I had raised him to be was the honor of my life.
My eyes did not miss much, even if the entire table assumed I was focused on my dinner. My niece did not miss much either. Her eyes kept landing on my face more than anyone else. She was in tune to everyone around her. She felt my hesitance the most. The party had gone without incident, and if it did not, Rosaria would steal my heart tonight. If she did not have somewhere to channel her inner rage, she would combust. She loved herself too much to allow that to happen. And making Chloe feel insignificant, not good enough for our floors, was nothing to her.
If Chloe could not take her vitriol, how was the girl supposed to live our ways and be the wife my son deserved?
Rosaria refused to accept Massimo not being the future king as she would refuse this marriage—until she no longer had the breath to do so.
My father sat on the opposite side of the table, facing me. King facing future king. He stood and tapped his knife against the side of his crystal glass filled with red wine. The entire table quieted as he fixed his suit with his free hand and then bestowed a blessing upon my son and his future wife, raising his glass to the couple. The entire table did the same. He ended the salutation. And once he drank, it was as if he had ended a commanding sentence with an immovable period.
Finale.
My son seemed to have been injected with pride as he thanked his grandfather, then pulled his future wife in for a tender kiss on the cheek. Chloe’s face was brighter than the red wine, her flush seeming to warm the entire room. Her eyes were wet with tears, but I also noticed her scratching at her arms.
Massimo said something in her ear. Her eyes were tearing, the droplets running down her face. Her nose ran. Her lips doubled in size. Her neck and chest were patched with red hives—the color of her cheeks. She grabbed for the wine, drinking it down, then started to choke. She grabbed at her throat as if she could not breathe.
“Haze—” she began but could not finish. She started to wheeze as if her air was being cut off.
Massimo’s frantic eyes landed on mine as he held her closer, at a loss of what to do. I snapped an order at the doctor I had invited to the party for a reason such as this. She ran to Chloe’s side, asking her rapid questions in Italian.
“Hazelnut,” Massimo snapped at the doctor. “She is allergic.”
I knew this, and so did my wife. Our son had told us this—he did not want anything served with it as an ingredient.
“My fault.” Abree stood, acting as if she were concerned. “Rosaria asked me to handle the dessert menu. I did not know.”
“It must have slipped my mind,” Rosaria said casually, waving a dismissive hand.
The doctor gave Chloe a shot, assigning a stage to her attack, 4, but in a few minutes, Chloe started to breathe easier. Still, the doctor escorted Chloe to the hospital, Massimo carrying her out of the party. The doctor wanted to monitor her since she was still wheezing, though not fighting for breath as she had been.
The party dispersed after, my niece giving me a pained look before she left, my father a cold one that warned me we would discuss this. Alone at our table fit for a king and his queen, my wife sipped her wine as if nothing had happened.
“Pity,” she said, her eyes meeting mine in defiance, “that all the guests had to leave the party early.” She picked up a leftover dessert, turning it some to study it, then flung it back on the plate as if it had dishonored her. “At least it was not a dull one.” She kept her eyes on mine as she rose from her seat and left me alone at the table.