Page 158 of Promised to the Don of Naples
"Shut up."
I laughed and kissed the top of her head.
We stayed there, the three of us, while the sun went down over the sea of Capri. The nonna inside, with Francesca. Matteo cleaning the fish in the kitchen. Raffaele would arrive from Naples on the last boat—he held the house down from there now, the part that still couldn't be let go, so we could be here, in the light.
Valentina rested her head on my shoulder. And across the bay, far off, blue in the late-afternoon light, Vesuvius.
Her whole life, she told me once, Vesuvius never answered anything. She asked, questioned, shouted—and the volcano stayed there, mute, on the other side of the water.
I looked at Vesuvius with my daughter on my chest and my wife on my shoulder.
And I understood why it never answered.
It never answered because the question was never for it. The answer had been here the whole time, waiting for us to arrive.
The sun finished going down and Aurora took a deep breath against my chest while Valentina closed her eyes on my shoulder.
And Vesuvius, across the bay, slept in peace on the water—the way it sleeps when it's spat out all the fire it had, and finally rested.
The End.
