Page 53 of Promised to the Don of Naples
I also took Francesca's letter in the inside pocket of my jacket—I don't know why, but I took it.
I went down at five-forty.
Luca was already on the staircase. Black trousers, white shirt, black blazer over his shoulder, sunglasses hooked on his pocket. He hadn't slept either—I saw it in his eyes.
"Bella."
"Luca."
He looked at me from head to toe, taking his time.
"You didn't sleep."
"Neither did you."
He held out his hand without ceremony. I put mine in his, his fingers closed around mine—firm, warm, calloused—and we went down the staircase of Villa Moretti holding hands for the first time.
We went to the car. The driver—Tonio, I'd learned his name last week—closed the doors, took his place, and the car pulled away down the cypress drive without a sound, still dark outside.
His hand stayed in mine on the seat.
The Moretti yacht was anchored at Mergellina.
It wasn't small. It was a traditional Neapolitan gozzo, modified, about sixty-five feet, white, with wooden masts. A crew of four men, two of them I recognized from the house.
We boarded, and the captain greeted Luca with a nod. We went into the main cabin—a small room with leather benches, a low table, fresh coffee and cut fruit waiting.
Luca sat me down beside him on a leather bench and kept holding my hand.
The engine started. We left Mergellina at six-fifteen, the sun still hidden behind Vesuvius.
For half an hour he said nothing, and neither did I.
We stayed there, side by side, hands joined, looking out the rectangular cabin window while the yacht cut across the bay and the sky shifted from dark blue to pink-gray to gold.
I was the first to speak.
"How's it going to go when we get there?"
He let go of my hand. Slowly—not abruptly, just so he could turn to face me. He propped his elbow on the back of the bench and looked at me.
"I'm going to knock on the door," he said plainly. "The house doesn't have heavy security. Salvatore relies on the obscurity of the place, not on armed men. The woman who looksafter Matteo is Donna Carmela, eighty-two, deaf in her right ear. I knew her when I was a child."
"All right."
"I go in, and you stay in the car."
"I'm not staying in the car."
"Bella..."
"I'm not going to stay in the car, Luca."
"I knew you'd say that."
"Then why did you try?"
"Because my job as your fiancé is to try."
