Luca MORETTI
Valentina was greeting the guests.
Still in the ivory dress, my mother's ring on her right hand, the new band on her left, her mother's earrings. I was in the corner of the room, beside the bar, glass in hand, not drinking, just watching.
Forty-four years old.
I'd lived forty-four years without marrying. Lived forty-four years without thinking about marrying. Women came, women went, and not one of them set foot in this house in Posillipo in any way that mattered. Bianca, in seven years, never got past the door of my room.
That one had come in through every door, in the wrong order and the right order, in seven months.
The leader of the string quartet came over.
"Padrone. Whenever the signora is ready."
"Now."
I crossed the room.
The guests moved aside without being asked—I'm Don Moretti before I'm a groom, and they know it. Valentina saw me and understood before I reached her. She set her glass on the table beside her and held out her hand.
"Bella mia."
"Sì."
The music started. Mi sono innamorato di te. Tenco, the sixties. The nonna had chosen it—of course.
I put my hand on her waist. She put hers on my shoulder, and we began to dance.
Slow. She was almost a foot shorter than me. Her head came a little below my chin, and I caught the smell of her hair—jasmine from Donna Beatrice's shampoo, and something that was only her.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Raffaele.
Leaning against the bar, a glass of whiskey in his hand, black suit. A neutral look, a short smile for me when our eyes met.
Valentina lifted her face, green eyes on mine.
I kissed her forehead. I felt my mother's ring press into my right hand inside my jacket.
Valentina smiled against my neck.
"Luca. I'm a Moretti now."
"Sì, bella mia."