Page 7 of Promised to the Don of Naples
I stopped, and held my breath.
The ember went dark, then glowed again.
"Vieni." The voice came low, in Italian, unhurried. "Now that you've come down, come here."
I knew that voice.
I knew that voice, because it was the voice I'd imagined a thousand times in my head over the last five years. I knew that voice because it was the voice my mind had built on top of the portrait—the teenager who'd become a man. I knew that voicebecause it had the thick Neapolitan accent of the Morettis, the one Raffaele didn't have anymore, because he'd lived abroad.
Luca Moretti.
He was leaning against the olive tree in the middle of his vineyard, waiting for me to run for the north side, precisely because he knew, because he was the one who'd designed the wall that way.
I thought about running, but my ankle reminded me I wouldn't make it, so I thought about the dagger in my boot.
No. Not here. Not like this.
I limped over to him.
The sky was starting to turn pink behind Vesuvius. I saw him for the first time from ten feet away, the dawn light just beginning to trace his outline against the olive trunk. Tall—taller than Raffaele, stronger. Black suit, no tie, white shirt open at the first button, the jacket hung on a branch of the olive tree, as if he'd stopped there specifically to wait. The scar on his right eyebrow, exactly where it was in the photograph. Black hair tousled from the drive, black eyes... and alive.
Alive in a way the old photo hadn't managed to capture.
He looked me up and down, unhurried.
"Ankle's screwed?"
"None of your business."
He laughed, then took another drag and blew the smoke off to the side.
"You come down better than you go up, Valentina. Next time, you'd do well to bend your knees before you jump. Don't land flat-footed."
I didn't answer. I stood six feet from him, chin up, weight on my left foot, hand at my waist—because from there it was close to the boot.
He caught the gesture. His eyes went down to my right boot, then came back up.
"Dagger?"
Casual, like a man asking the time.
"No," I lied.
"Three hundred years old? Ivory handle? The Rossi crest?"
My blood ran cold.
He smiled out of the corner of his mouth. A small smile, slow, with no joy in it.
"Your father showed me the collection once in Palermo, eighteen years ago. That was the only one missing. He said it had vanished mysteriously." He drew on the cigar. "It must be with you."
"You don't know that I have it."
"Bella." He raised an eyebrow. The one with the scar. "A woman who runs away from home at four in the morning, wearing tall boots under her pants in June, isn't dressing for the cold. If you take my meaning..."
I said nothing, just closed my hand into a fist.
He threw the cigar on the ground, crushed it underfoot, and took a step toward me. Luca stopped an arm's length away, and I could smell him.
