Page 114 of Promised to the Don of Naples
It was short. It was strong. It was the first time.
"Coraggio, signora."
"Sì, nonna."
Luca went past us to talk to Donna Beatrice. I turned to listen.
"Padrone," she said, low. "Pasquale."
Luca stopped.
"What?"
"Yesterday morning. In Salerno."
I went still.
Pasquale. The soldier who stayed at the grapevine gate. The one who laughed with Donna Beatrice about the lemons. The one who brought me a glass of water that afternoon of the seamstress, on the second day of my life in Posillipo.
Luca said nothing, only closed his eyes for half a second.
Then he opened them and looked at Donna Beatrice.
"His wife?"
"Told. Padrone, the brother is coming from Caserta."
"Have Lina make the black suit. I'll go."
"Sì, padrone."
I washed his shirt on the marble of the main bathroom sink.
Not the one from that day, another one. The one he'd worn to his father's study with Raffaele after lunch. There were two stains on the right cuff—not his, he'd confirmed. Dried blood. Brown.
He was on the edge of the stone tub. No shirt, the tattoos exposed.
"Whose?"
"No one you knew."
"Luca…"
"One of Salvatore's men. In Capodimonte. Yesterday."
"The shirt stays."
He stood and came up behind me, resting his chin on my shoulder, his hand on my hips.
"Bella mia."
"Sì."
"Get out of here."
"No."
"Bella mia."
