Page 39 of Promised to the Don of Naples
"Bella mia."
"Don't call me bella mia, Bianca."
Her voice changed. The soprano with the Roman accent vanished, and the one that came was lower, older, far more tired.
"What do you want?"
"I want to know how long."
"How long what?"
"How long you've been my father's lover."
She looked at me but didn't answer for about ten seconds. When she did, it was almost a whisper:
"Since 2016."
"Seven months after my mother died."
"Sì."
"During your seven years with Luca, too?"
"Yes."
"When did it end?" I kept asking, sensing the vulnerability in her words.
"June."
"June of this year?"
"That's right."
"And do you still see each other?"
Then she went silent. It was the first time in fifteen minutes that she said nothing—she just picked the Vogue up off the table and pretended to leaf through it.
"Why are you asking me this, Valentina?"
"Because I found your letters in my father's office."
Bianca went pale. Truly pale. Her face powder was now a different color from her neck. I saw the small gesture: both her hands gripping the fabric of her dress over her thighs, hard.
"How many?" she asked.
"Twenty-three."
Silence.
I stood up and picked the Calvino up off the piano.
"I'm not going to tell Luca."
She looked at me, surprised.
"Why not?"
"Because I still don't know what I gain by telling."
