Page 106 of Promised to the Don of Naples
Luca appeared on the terrace above.
White linen pants, white shirt open at the top three buttons, and a glass of whiskey in his right hand.
"Bella mia."
"Vieni qui."
"I just got changed."
"I know."
"I'm not getting in the pool."
He set the glass down on the stone parapet of the terrace. He came down the little side stairs, barefoot, without taking off the linen pants, over to the edge of the pool.
I splashed water at him. Not much—just enough to hit the right cuff of his white pants.
He closed his eyes for a second. Madonna santa, I thought. He's going to kill me.
Then he laughed, in that way he had—almost too much of a laugh, almost nothing at all.
"You're impossible."
"Sì, padrone."
And he got into the pool.
In the linen pants and the open white shirt. The water came up to his waist. He took three steps to where I was, slowly, with that calm of a man who knew I was cornered in the corner, and took me by the waist with both hands.
"I'd just gotten changed," he murmured.
"Cazzo, you're a Don. Have it washed."
The corner of his mouth lifted on one side.
He kissed me, long, with the taste of whiskey in his mouth, my wet hair dripping water onto him. His hands moved up my waist—now the part that was out of the water, cold—and down my hips.
I lifted myself up and wrapped my legs around his waist in the water. He held me by the backside with both hands.
"Bella mia. Not here."
"No?"
"There are soldiers on the staircase."
I rested my forehead against his.
"Come on, Luca. Andiamo."
He carried me off in his arms. He climbed the pool steps with the pants heavy and streaming water.
He carried me across the terrace, through the living room door, through the kitchen—where Donna Lucia, hearing us, turned to the spice shelf and stood very carefully adjusting the jar of oregano.
Madonna, I thought. The poor woman.
"Scusi, Donna Lucia!" I said over Luca's shoulder, laughing.
"Niente, signora," she answered, without turning. "I didn't see a thing."
