Page 38 of Promised to the Don of Naples
Bianca Varga hadn't started with Luca. She'd started with Luca's father. And between the one and the other—across several generations—she must have passed through the family's associates.
Through allied capos. Through padrini. Through Salvatore Rossi.
I smiled at Donna Beatrice.
"Grazie."
"Prego, signorina."
She left the room with her apron impeccable, and I sat holding the coffee cup with both hands.
The housekeeper had thirty-two years in that house. And she had decided, that morning, to choose a side.
I found Bianca in the music room at eleven.
I knew she'd be there—Donna Beatrice had let it slip, with the calculated indifference of someone who'd worked thirty-two years for the family, that Signora Varga liked to read near the piano before lunch.
I went up to the west wing. I took my Calvino out of the suitcase and went down, crossing the east hallway. Then I pushed open the double doors.
Bianca was on the white sofa, legs crossed, reading Vogue Italia. A light-gray dress again, with a glass of sparkling wine on the table beside her, at eleven in the morning on a Monday.
She looked up when I came in, slightly surprised.
"Valentina!"
"Bianca."
"You came back."
"I came back."
"I thought you'd stay longer in Palermo."
"Bianca." I smiled and walked to the piano. Then I set the Calvino on the closed lid. "You used to think a lot of things."
She set the Vogue down.
"Excuse me?"
I sat down on the piano bench. I crossed my legs and looked at her from across the room, with all the calm in the world.
"Did you enjoy the engagement dinner?"
She hesitated half a second.
"Yes."
"I saw you watching my father during dinner."
"You're mistaken, bella."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"Bianca," I said slowly, without raising my voice, "I saw you watching my father. Twice. Once when he came into the room, and again when he left for the library with Acquaviva. Both times you held your breath. I notice these things—five years in a convent teaches you a lot."
She set the glass down very slowly.
