LUCA MORETTI
I heard her footsteps going up, and then I hurled the glass of whiskey hard against the pantry wall.
The crystal shattered into a thousand pieces against the Vietri tile. The sound ricocheted off the walls. Somewhere in the house, a dog barked once and went quiet.
I braced both hands on the counter, lowering my head.
Inside: Pericolosa.
But for the first time in twenty-five years, the word wasn't about the woman.
It was about myself.
I was about to break a promise I made at nineteen at my mother's funeral—the promise never to be the kind of man my mother hated in her husband.
A man who drinks so he won't feel. A man who pins a woman against the pantry wall without asking.
I hadn't pinned Valentina, hadn't touched her.
But I wanted to.
And between wanting and doing, in that dark pantry that night, there had been two minutes to spare.
I raised my head. I put my hand in my pocket and dialed Acquaviva.
"Pronto."
"Acquaviva. I need three days."
"Three days for what?"
"Of distance from Valentina. I'm going to Rome tomorrow. You take care of the house, the cellar, and most of all her."
"Sicuro, Luca?"
"Sicuro."
"Capisco."
I hung up.
I looked at the shards of crystal scattered across the pantry floor. A small stain of whiskey on the white wall, where the glass had shattered.
And I said, out loud, to no one but myself:
"I'll come back better, bella mia. I swear."