Page 14 of Promised to the Don of Naples
He led me across the room to my place at the table, to his right, at the head. We walked in silence, and when he pulled out my chair, he lowered his head a fraction near my ear and said, low enough that no one else could hear:
"Brava."
It was the first word he'd said to me in four days. And I hated, so much, that it warmed something in me that should have stayed cold.
CHAPTER 5
"Lies have short legs."
VALENTINA ROSSI
Dinner lasted three hours and had five courses.
I barely ate. Seated to Luca's right, with Bianca three chairs down trying to rebuild her pride with one glass of Barolo after another, with my father across the table pretending I didn't exist ever since the appetizer—I didn't have the stomach for more than two bites of each course. I drank water and smiled at whoever needed a smile. And I answered the three questions the consigliere Acquaviva asked me about the convent.
And I waited.
I waited for dessert to turn into coffee. I waited for coffee to turn into grappa. I waited for the men to go off to their cigars in the library, and for Bianca to finally say her goodbyes, claiming a migraine, kissing the air near Luca's face without touching it.
I waited until there was no one left but my father, in the cigar room, talking quietly with Acquaviva, and Luca standing on the balcony off the music room, smoking alone with his back to me.
Without thinking too much, I went to him.
"You promised."
He didn't turn around.
"I know."
"You said you'd answer me when my father was at your table."
"I know."
"He's at your table."
"He's in my library, Valentina." Now he turned, looking at me. "And it's better that he's there when I tell you. Come with me."
He walked off the balcony, but didn't wait for me to follow—he knew I would.
We crossed a side corridor and went up half a flight of stairs. He opened a door with a key he took from the inside pocket of his tuxedo and made me go in first.
It was his office, the one Raffaele had skipped on the tour.
Dark wood. Shelves from floor to ceiling. A big mahogany desk turned toward the window that looked out over the bay. An old map of Italy on the wall. And on the desk, a closed leather folder he'd left there waiting.
He closed the door behind me and locked it.
"Sit."
"I'd rather stand."
"Sit down, Valentina. This isn't something you hear standing up."
I sat in the leather armchair across from the desk. He didn't take the chair opposite. He stayed standing, coming around the desk, slowly taking off his tuxedo jacket and hanging it over the back of the chair. He rolled the sleeves of his white shirt up to the elbow, and I caught a glimpse of the Latin tattoo on his left forearm—a phrase I didn't have time to read.
"Allora." He leaned against the front of the desk, his eyes fixed on mine. "The photo."
"The photo..."
