Page 49 of Promised to the Don of Naples
Not because of the curtains—by choice. It had sixteen-foot ceilings, walls of old stone painted graphite-gray, furniture of very dark wood, a black rug.
His bed took up the center—a wrought-iron frame, white sheets, a canopy with no curtains. A tall four-panel window stood open onto the balcony overlooking the bay, the midday light coming in through the half-closed shutters in thin stripes.
It smelled of his cigar and of something else I now recognized—sandalwood, maybe. Burnt wood. Him.
He was standing near the window. White shirt, sleeves rolled, barefoot on the rug, a glass of whiskey in his hand.
"Bella."
"Luca."
He set the glass down on the side table slowly, coming toward me.
"What happened?"
"I need to tell you something."
"Sit."
"I'd rather stand."
"Sit, Valentina."
He took me by the elbow—light, firm—and led me to the leather armchair near the window.
I sat. He pulled a low leather stool close and sat down in front of me, his knees inches from mine, his black eyes on mine.
"It was Bianca who altered the envelope."
He didn't blink.
"I know."
"But it wasn't her idea. It was my father's."
"Go on."
I told him everything in fifteen minutes. My father's deal with Bianca in January, the two hundred thousand euros, the mission to plant doubt in me, the altering of the letter.
He listened in absolute silence. The only thing that moved in him was the left side of his jaw, near the scar, clenching twice at specific points.
"There's much more, Luca."
I saw his chest rise a centimeter higher—a deeper breath, bracing, like a man who knows a blow is coming and wants to be steady when it lands.
"Tell me."
"Matteo is alive."
LUCA MORETTI
The sentence hung in the air between the two of us.
I watched Valentina's mouth say the words. I watched her lips form the syllables—Mat-te-o-is-a-live. I watched her chin tremble faintly as she finished, and I watched her eyes on me like someone braced to catch a man about to fall.
I didn't fall.
I stayed seated on the leather stool, my knees eight inches from hers, both hands resting on my thighs, not moving, and for exactly thirty seconds I thought of nothing.
