Page 62 of Promised to the Don of Naples

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I woke late.

I'd fallen asleep at four in the morning after two hours staring at the ceiling and reliving his hand on my nape, his mouth on my collarbone, thenext time, you won't be able to stop.I'd slept dreaming of the cellar, of the mahogany desk, of the taste of whiskey on his mouth.

I woke at nine-thirty with the sun already high and the guilt sitting on my chest.

My brother slept in a cellar last night, and I slept dreaming of the man who put him there.

I took a cold shower and put on black trousers with a gray blouse.

Raffaele was alone in the breakfast room.

"Cognatina."

"Good morning."

"You didn't sleep much."

"Neither did you."

"I've slept little for thirty-three years. It doesn't count."

I sat down in the chair across from him. Donna Beatrice appeared, poured black coffee without asking. Then she looked at Raffaele a second longer than natural and left.

Raffaele looked at me over the rim of his cup.

"You're furious with him."

"I am."

"Because of the cellar?"

"Yes."

"Bella. Would you rather your father got Matteo back?"

"No."

"Then..."

"But he could have put him in a room."

"He couldn't. And you know it."

"Raffaele..."

"You're in conflict, I can see it. You think you should hate my brother in the afternoon and want him at night. Welcome to the family. That's how a Moretti's woman has slept for four generations."

"I'm not anyone's woman."

"Bella, you've been a Moretti's woman since the day you kissed him under the arbor."

The cup paused half a centimeter in my hand.

"How do you know about the arbor?"

"I didn't," he said, his smile widening. "But now I do."

"You're a dangerous man."

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