Page 151 of Promised to the Don of Naples
"Luca," I murmured. "Now."
He came into me slowly. And then he stopped.
He stayed still, inside me, his hand open on my belly, his forehead against mine. He didn't move, just stayed—feeling, breathing with me, his hand on the belly where our child was growing.
I put my hand over his, both hands on my belly. The two of us still, joined, in the room in Capri with the jasmine and the sea.
We're three now, I thought, my eyes welling up. In a way, we're three in this bed. Making love became something else when you carry life.
"Bella mia," he whispered. "I never imagined this."
"Imagined what?"
"This." He kissed my forehead, still without moving. "A woman. A child. A home. Peace." His voice broke a little. "I thought I'd die alone in one of these wars, bella mia. I thought that was my end. A Don doesn't get this. A Don dies young and dies alone." He rested his forehead against mine again. "I didn't know there was this on the other side."
I felt a tear slide down.
"There is," I said. "Look."
And then he moved.
Slowly, deep, tender, his forehead on mine the whole time, his hand and my hand on my belly, with the jasmine and the sea and the lighthouse blinking.
There was no hurry, nothing but us.
I had a slow orgasm, with a long sigh against his mouth, my whole body letting go like someone untying an old knot. He came right after, in silence, his face buried in my neck, his body locking once and then relaxing entirely on top of me, carefully, no weight on my belly.
Then he stayed there. His head on my chest, this time—reversed, like that night after Carlo's execution.
I ran my hand through his hair, while his hand stayed on my belly.
"Luca. We're going to be all right."
"I know, bella mia." He kissed the skin over my heart. "For the first time, I know."
I woke before dawn.
I went out to the terrace of the pink house, barefoot, his robe over my shoulders—the smell of his sandalwood covering me.
Luca was asleep. Capri below was scattered lights on the hillside and the black sea and the lighthouse blinking across the water.
I put my hands on the stone parapet and looked at the night.
The girl who played Chopin in Palermo, with the acceptance letter from Bologna in the drawer and the dagger under the mattress, swearing revenge over her brother's casket.
Look where she ended up.
A married woman. Pregnant. Free. On a balcony in Capri, before dawn, with her husband's robe over her shoulders.
Her brother alive. Her father dead. Her mother avenged—not with blood, but with the truth in the papers.
"You don't sleep either," the nonna's voice said behind me.
I wasn't startled. She appeared on the terrace in a shawl and nightgown, the cane, her white hair loose for the first time I'd ever seen it—loose to her shoulders, white as foam.
"No, nonna."
She stopped beside me, looking at the sea with me.
