Page 89 of Promised to the Don of Naples
"Mamma."
We were both quiet. Somewhere above the house a bell rang—it must have been the church in Posillipo, three tolls.
Eleven in the morning.
"Sorella," he said, low. "There's something about Bianca."
"Bianca?"
"She used to come visit me in Capri. Donna Carmela let her in."
"I know. Bianca told me."
"Sorella"—and his voice dropped even lower—"she didn't tell you everything."
My heart skipped a beat.
"What?"
"Ask her who else used to go to Capri to visit me."
"Who?"
He looked at me. Really looked, for the first time since I'd walked in, but he didn't answer.
The iron door opened behind me. Acquaviva was on the threshold, one step into the room, his hand raised.
"Signora."
"One more minute."
"Signora," he repeated, low, in that voice that wasn't a request. "It's time."
I looked at Matteo, and he looked away.
"I'll come back tomorrow," I told him.
He didn't answer.
I went up the stairs with the sentence stuck in the pit of my stomach.
Ask her who else used to go to Capri to visit me.
In the room, still short of breath, I took the dagger out of my boot and tossed it on top of the dresser. I sat down on the edge of the stone tub, but I didn't turn on the light. I let the afternoon sun come in through the tall, curtainless window.
Luca arrived half an hour later.
He came in without knocking; he knew I was there. He took off his jacket, threw it on the armchair, and loosened his tie with two tugs. Then he came to the sink, turned on the tap, and washed his face twice without saying anything.
I watched him. White shirt, broad back, the muscles of his back moving under the fabric.
Pericoloso, I thought. That man is dangerous even when he's washing his face.
"Bella mia."
"Sì."
"You're holding something back."
