Page 17 of Promised to the Don of Naples
I stared at the ceiling for five minutes before I moved.
Allora. So this was how you woke up on the first morning of your new life—with the taste of Barolo in your mouth and a different name to hate.
Because that was what was left of the night before, deep down, once the poetry of Luca's office had cooled and the convent voice had come back: suspicion.
A man who takes off his shirt, rolls up his sleeve, and talks slowly isn't being sincere, Valentina—he's selling something.
The Mother Superior would have said that, and she'd have said it looking him right in the eye.
I got up and went to the bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face three times.
"Good morning," I said to the mirror.
The Valentina in the mirror didn't answer.
My father was in the breakfast room, alone at the head of the table, eating a cornetto with fig jam, as if the world belonged to him.
He only looked up when I came in, but he didn't smile.
"Did you eat well at dinner, figlia?"
"Yes."
"Red is the color of a bride or a widow, Valentina. It's not the color for an engagement dinner."
I sat down in the chair across from him and poured black coffee, no sugar.
"It was what was in the closet, papà." I looked at him over the cup. "Donna Beatrice picked it out."
"I see."
"Papà. Luca told me something yesterday."
"Told you what?"
"That the two of you were partners."
"We were. For twenty years."
"And that Matteo spent summers at the Morettis' house on Capri."
Now he looked at me. His small dark eyes narrowed.
"Luca told you that?"
"He did."
"Correct." He set down his fork, wiping his mouth with the napkin. "And did Luca tell you why Matteo stopped spending summers there?"
"No."
"There it is."
He took a sip of coffee, watching me over the cup.
"Ask him, figlia mia. Ask what happened in the summer of 2015." He set the cup down on the table. "And if he gives you a pretty answer, ask again. He has a habit of giving three versions of the same story, and the truth is never the first one."
"What summer of 2015?"
