Page 95 of Promised to the Don of Naples
Luca was in the hall, charcoal-gray suit, dark tie, his posture straighter than I'd ever seen it.
A welcome, not a funeral, I thought. He looked at me when I reached the bottom step and held out his hand.
"Bella mia."
"Sì."
"Today you're going to see something I've never shown you." He kissed my temple. "Don't think it strange."
"What?"
"You'll see."
Tonio drove off to pick up the nonna at the port of Mergellina.
The car pulled up at twelve-oh-four.
Tonio opened the back door slowly, with the care of a man who knew the thing inside was fragile and dangerous at the same time. I saw the cane first—a solid silver handle, old, gleaming in the noon sun.
Nonna Adelina got out.
Five foot one at the most. Black dress, black scarf on her head, black stockings, black low-heeled shoes. White hair pinned in a bun, just two strands escaping behind her ear.
The eyes were Luca's. Black, only much older. Much older.
Luca walked over to her, and I saw it.
I saw the padrone of the Villa Moretti, the Don of the Naples Camorra, the man who'd killed two of my father's soldiers with his own hands three weeks ago—lower himself onto one knee in front of that old woman from Capri, take her hand in both of his, and kiss it.
The breath went out of me.
The nonna held his head with her free hand and kissed his forehead, but said nothing. He stood, offered his arm, and she took it.
The two of them came toward me slowly, at the short pace the cane set.
"Nonna," Luca said, "this is Valentina."
The nonna stopped in front of me, a meter away. She lifted her chin a little—I was much taller—and looked at me.
And looked.
And looked.
I'd already learned to hold Luca's gaze. But Nonna Adelina's was a different thing. It went deep.
"Tu sei lei," she said, quietly.
You're the one.
I didn't know who the one was. I didn't ask.
The nonna touched my chin with the tip of her index finger, tilting it up.
"Brava. Let's eat."
Lunch was for three, in the small dining room.
The nonna ate little. Fresh pasta with tomato from the garden, homemade bread, a glass of red wine. She talked little too—asked about Luca's trip to Rome last month, the weather in Posillipo, whether Donna Beatrice still made the limoncello that particular way. She told me the blue dress I was wearing was one of Lina's, that she'd known Lina's stitch for twenty years.
