Page 102 of Promised to the Don of Naples
His hand came up to my face, his whole palm on my cheek, the way he did it, and then he kissed me.
It wasn't a short kiss of courtesy. It was a Luca Moretti kiss—three whole seconds, three, with the church breathing around us and no one daring to move.
I closed my eyes, felt the heat of his body through the heavy wool jacket.
When he pulled back, I laughed. For the first time all day, I smiled.
The applause of the whole church filled everything.
We went out.
Grains of rice in my hair, on the veil, on the shoulder of his jacket. Photographers on the step below, shouting in Italian and English at the same time. Francesca behind us with the bouquet in her hand.
The nonna waited on the second step, leaning on the cane. When Luca passed her, he stopped and kissed her hand. She kissed his forehead, then looked at me.
"Signora Moretti."
"Nonna."
I saw her first smile in all the time I'd known her.
Luca MORETTI
Valentina was greeting the guests.
Still in the ivory dress, my mother's ring on her right hand, the new band on her left, her mother's earrings. I was in the corner of the room, beside the bar, glass in hand, not drinking, just watching.
Forty-four years old.
I'd lived forty-four years without marrying. Lived forty-four years without thinking about marrying. Women came, women went, and not one of them set foot in this house in Posillipo in any way that mattered. Bianca, in seven years, never got past the door of my room.
That one had come in through every door, in the wrong order and the right order, in seven months.
The leader of the string quartet came over.
"Padrone. Whenever the signora is ready."
"Now."
I crossed the room.
The guests moved aside without being asked—I'm Don Moretti before I'm a groom, and they know it. Valentina saw me and understood before I reached her. She set her glass on the table beside her and held out her hand.
"Bella mia."
"Sì."
The music started. Mi sono innamorato di te. Tenco, the sixties. The nonna had chosen it—of course.
I put my hand on her waist. She put hers on my shoulder, and we began to dance.
Slow. She was almost a foot shorter than me. Her head came a little below my chin, and I caught the smell of her hair—jasmine from Donna Beatrice's shampoo, and something that was only her.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Raffaele.
Leaning against the bar, a glass of whiskey in his hand, black suit. A neutral look, a short smile for me when our eyes met.
Valentina lifted her face, green eyes on mine.
