Page 117 of Promised to the Don of Naples
"Va bene."
"I'm not coming down."
I looked at her.
"You're not?"
"No."
"Nonna…"
"I don't want to see that man, signora."
She said it quietly, but the sentence went into me like a stone.
That man. Not Carlo. Not the consigliere. That man.
"Why?"
"You don't ask everything, signora. Today, you don't ask." She drank the last sip of her coffee. "You play piano. When Luca tells you to play, you play, until he asks you to stop."
I felt a chill in my stomach.
"Va bene, nonna."
She braced the cane, stood, and kissed the top of my head.
"Brava, signora Moretti."
Acquaviva arrived at eleven on the dot.
I was in the hall when he came in. Light gray suit, round glasses, brown leather briefcase under his arm.
He saw me and gave the minimal nod of his head.
"Signora Moretti."
"Signor Acquaviva."
"Auguri tardivi."
"Grazie."
His voice was the same, his step was the same. But I, with the nonna's words in my head—that man—looked at him differently. And it was as if the whole house had changed color for a second.
He went up the stairs, and Donna Beatrice took him to the study.
I went to the music room.
I sat down on the piano bench, lifted the lid, and rested my fingers. C. Then D. Then I dove into my mother's Chopin.
I played further than the first time with the nonna. I got close to the end.
I didn't finish—I never finished, but I got close.
Luca appeared in the doorway halfway through the second repeat.
He leaned against the frame but didn't come in. When I stopped, he came in and over to the piano and kissed the top of my head.
