Page 129 of Promised to the Don of Naples
I gave him Bianca's envelope, and he read it in the low light of the lamp. Then he folded it and put it in the inside pocket of the jacket on the chair.
"Tomorrow I'll look into it."
"Va bene."
My fingers caught on the scar on his ribs. His fingers moved up the inside of my thigh.
"Luca. I was crying."
"Lo so."
"It's not from sadness."
"I know, bella mia."
I didn't know how much I missed it, I thought, until he came into the house.
When he came into me, I was already crying slowly. Hot tears running down the side of my face, and him kissing each one without a word, without asking.
I wrapped my legs around him, and he moved slowly.
In the middle, he stopped, his mouth at my ear, and whispered:
"You feel different, bella mia."
I went still for half a second.
"I know."
"You know what?"
"I can't explain it, but I'm different."
He didn't ask anything more, but kept going.
I came first, slowly, his forehead against mine. He came right after, his open hand on my belly—on my belly, again, I thought—and buried his face in my neck.
I woke at three thirty; he was getting dressed in the dark.
"Luca. Two weeks."
"One."
"You're sure?"
"Lo prometto."
He came to the bed and kissed my forehead, long. Then he put his open hand on my belly over the sheet, one more time. He looked at me—just looked—and left through the door before dawn.
CHAPTER 40
"There are houses where you were born that you return to only once. I knew which was mine, and I knew why I was going."
LUCAMORETTI
The baptism photo was still turned against the bookshelf.
I'd thought about turning it back three times since the night of the execution. Every time, I stopped my hand halfway. Carlo in the light gray suit, Salvatore in black, my father in the center. There was nowhere to look in that photo that didn't hurt.
