Page 148 of Promised to the Don of Naples
There had always been blood, fear, goodbye, or a secret. It had always been the thing people do in wartime.
Now there was no war.
The dress came off, his shirt came off. He moved back up my body, and his hand went to my belly—again, always—but this time he spoke:
"Allora." He put his mouth against my belly. "You in there, close your eyes. Papà's working."
I howled and smacked his shoulder.
"Luca!"
"What?" He lifted his head, all innocent. "I'm just giving notice. It's rude not to give notice."
"You're an idiot."
"I'm your idiot." He came up and kissed me. "Bella mia."
And then he went slow again—because even joking he treated me with that new care, his hand always passing near my belly, his weight on his elbows so he wouldn't crush me, but there was lightness under the care, there was a smile, there was that thing I didn't know, making love with someone at peace with life.
"I want to be on top."
He laughed.
"Of course you do."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you always want to be on top, bella mia." He rolled over, brought me up onto him, his hands open on my waist. "I've learned by now—you're bossy even in bed."
"And you're complaining?"
"I give thanks every day," he answered, smiled, and settled me on top of him.
I moved slowly, my hand open on his chest, over the tattoo.
And for the first time I wasn't crying, wasn't afraid, wasn't thinking about Mamma, or death, or war.
I was laughing. We were laughing, both of us, in the middle of it, and when I lost the rhythm and we almost came apart I laughed even harder, and he held me by the hips and said, "focus, signora," and I said, "shut up, padrone," and we laughed together.
Then it started turning into something else.
It got deeper, more serious, the way it does when the body takes over. His hands moved up my waist, his black eyes locked on mine. Our breathing sped up together.
"Bella mia," he murmured, and now there was no joke in his voice.
"I know."
"Ti amo."
"I love you."
I leaned forward, forehead against his. My hair falling around both our faces. And then there was no more playing—there was just us, deep, together, in the room golden with light and the sea down below.
I came first, my mouth on his to smother the sound. He came right after, his hands gripping my hips, his forehead buried in my neck, saying my name low against my skin.
Then I collapsed on top of him, laughing again, for no reason, just out of happiness.
"What are you laughing about?" he asked, his hand moving up and down my back.
