Page 68 of Promised to the Don of Naples

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"Our mother knew..."

"She did."

"And she stayed with him anyway."

"Bella," he said plainly. "Do you really want the answer?"

I swallowed hard, looking at the white wall of the cellar.

"Not yet. I need to go up now. I'll come back tomorrow."

I climbed the cellar stairs. And I thought, with my heart beating out of rhythm:I'm going to Mondello. Before the wedding.

Raffaele was in the rose garden. I saw him through the salon window, before going down. I thought about detouring through the south terrace, but I didn't.

"Cognatina."

"Raffaele."

He was in trousers and a shirt, no jacket, with a glass of sparkling wine.

"You're prettier in the afternoon."

"I look the same."

"You don't." He smiled. "A Moretti's woman gets prettier in a Moretti's absence. It's a phenomenon I've observed for thirty-three years."

I smiled despite myself.

"Raffaele. You know your brother asked me not to be alone with you."

"I know."

"And you came to the garden to see me anyway."

"I came to the garden to smoke. You're the one who came."

He was right.

"Cazzo."

"Cognatina, such convent language."

"Shut up, Raffaele."

He laughed. I walked over to the stone bench, sat down, and looked at him.

"Why do you always show up when I need to think?"

"You're the one who decides when to come see me—that's different. And I know you want to ask me something."

"I do."

"Ask."

"Do you love your brother?"

"I've been his brother for thirty-three years, cognatina. It's a complicated question." He took a sip. "But yes. I love him."

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