CHAPTER 17
"A Don doesn't weep in someone's arms. A Don settles scores."
VALENTINA ROSSI
The bell rang three times before the door opened.
The one who opened it was a small woman in her eighties, a black dress to the ankle, a gray apron, white hair pinned in a low bun. Very pale blue eyes, the kind of eyes that no longer see what they saw at forty.
Donna Carmela.
She looked at Luca and took only three seconds to recognize him.
"Madonna santa."
"Good morning, Donna Carmela."
"Luca."
It was her only word; I saw her hand trembling on the doorknob.
"We're coming in."
She stepped back. Without saying anything more, without asking who I was, without excusing herself. She backed down the entrance hall with the obedience of a woman who had known Luca's grandfather when Luca's grandfather was still young enough to keep a mistress.
We went in.
Inside, the house was small, low ceilings, old stone floor. It smelled of fresh basil and wax.
There was a narrow corridor about twenty-five feet long that ended in a white wooden door. To the left of the corridor, a staircase rose to the upper floor.
Luca put his hand on my waist. Squeezed a centimeter—steady, bella.
"Donna Carmela. Where is he?"
The old woman pointed at the staircase with her chin, without another word.
Luca looked at me.
"Bella. You go up behind me. Not in front."
"Okay."
He went up first. Me, three steps behind. Donna Carmela stayed in the hall below, holding the edge of her apron the way a nun holds a rosary.
The staircase opened onto a short corridor. There were three doors, and the one at the end was ajar.
Luca went straight to it and pushed it open.
And there was Matteo.
He was sitting in an armchair by the window, reading. A loose white shirt, light cotton trousers, bare feet on the stone floor. The book fell from his hand when the door opened.
He saw me first.
"Bella?"
It was a whisper. It wasn't even voice—just air.
He stood up slowly, as if his body had forgotten how to get up from an armchair. His eyes—black like my father's, only warmer, they'd always been warmer—began to fill with tears.
"Luca."
"Matteo."
"Madonna."
"Sit down, Matteo."
"Luca, I can explain…"
"Sit down."
Matteo sat down.
It wasn't a choice, it was Luca's tone. I'd never heard that tone—that one specifically.
It wasn't the Don's tone he used with Bianca, much less the firm tone of the office. It was a colder tone, older, that came from somewhere in him I didn't yet know.
I took two steps forward to go to my brother, but Luca put his hand on my elbow.
"Bella. Wait."
"Luca, he's my brother. I'm going to hug him."
"In a moment."
I looked at him. For the first time that morning, with the eyes of someone who'd just recognized something she hadn't seen before.
He hadn't come to Capri to reunite with his childhood friend, but to ask questions.
And he was going to.
"Luca…"
"Bella. Sit down too."
Luca walked over to Matteo, stopping in front of the armchair. He didn't pull up a chair, just stood there, looking down, both hands behind his back—the posture of an officer in an interrogation.
"Matteo."
"Luca, listen…"
"Shut up. I have two questions," Luca said plainly. "You're going to answer both. If I feel you're lying by a single syllable, I take you out of here carried, not walking. Capisci?"
Matteo swallowed hard and looked at me, begging for help with his eyes.
I didn't give it.
I stayed where I was, because something inside me—the convent Valentina, the Valentina of my father's office, the arbor Valentina—knew that if I interceded now, I'd ruin everything.
Matteo nodded.
"Capisco."
"First question. When you found out, in 2015, that your father was stealing from my family. Did you come to my father before you went to yours?"
Silence.
"Matteo."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I thought I could handle it in-house."
"You thought wrong."
"I know."
"Look at me when you answer."
Matteo raised his eyes; he looked frightened.
"I thought wrong, Luca."
"Second question." Luca took half a step closer. "Did you know your father was going to promise me your sister?"
"I found out in January."
"January of this year?"
"Yes."
"And you didn't warn me."
"Luca…"
"You didn't warn me."
"I was a prisoner, Luca! I had no phone, I had no way to…"
"You had Bianca."
The room stopped.
I saw the blood drain from my brother's face for the second time that morning. I saw him look at me, the apology in his eyes before he even formed a word.
"Cazzo, Luca, I can explain…"
"You had Bianca in Capri two weeks ago," Luca said plainly. "You could have sent any message through her. To me. To Raffaele. To Acquaviva. You could have said one word and I'd have gone there myself to get you out of this house before Valentina ever set foot in mine."
"I didn't know what you'd done in those years, Luca. I didn't know if you'd accepted my father's story. I didn't know if you were still my fratello or if you'd become the Don who killed to order."
"Capisco."
Luca stepped back half a step, putting his hand in the inside pocket of his jacket. Then he took out his phone and dialed.
"Acquaviva. Send two men to Capri. Via Tragara, the pink house. Take Matteo and bring him to Posillipo, to the south cellar. Not a room. The cellar." He paused, watching him. "Yes. I know what I'm asking." A pause. "No. That I'll decide later."
He hung up, and my brother stood.
"Luca, please…"
"Sit down, Matteo."
"Luca…"
"You're going to Posillipo, and you'll stay there until the wedding. And after the wedding, I decide whether you come out of the cellar as my fratello again, or as the man who spent seven years without sending word."
Then Luca looked at me.
"Bella, you have five minutes."
And he left the room.
I was alone with my brother for the first time in seven years. And I had no choice—I went to him and hugged him.
He hugged me back. Hard. And then he cried, the way I'd never seen a man in my family cry.
I cried too, but five minutes later I went down the stairs with my heart heavy in a new way.
Because the man I'd kissed twenty hours before had just shown me, in three sentences, exactly what kind of man he was.
And I hadn't pulled back, and that scared me more than the kiss.