LUCA MORETTI
The yacht left Mergellina at nine at night.
Valentina, the nonna with a bandage on her temple, Matteo carrying a suitcase for the first time in seven years, four Moretti soldiers. Raffaele stayed in Posillipo.
The crossing was silent.
I held Valentina's hand the whole time. She rested her head on my shoulder. Matteo, in the front seat of the yacht, looked at me once, lowered his head, and went back to looking at the sea.
In Capri, at the Marina Grande, Donna Pia was waiting.
The nonna got off first, leaning on Matteo.
I jumped onto the stone and held out my hand to Valentina.
"Two weeks," I said.
"Two."
"Lo prometto."
"I know."
She let go of my hand slowly. She went off walking with the nonna up the narrow street toward the pink house, Matteo at her side.
Before she disappeared around the bend, she turned.
I waved. She waved.
I went back to the yacht. On the way back to Mergellina, I stayed alone on the deck. A cigarette lit for the first time in four years—not a cigar, a cigarette, from the pack the captain offered me without asking. Vesuvius appearing on the other side of the bay, dark, against a moonless sky.
Bella mia. I promised you two weeks, but I'm going to kill your father sooner than I promised.
I put the cigarette out on the railing and threw it into the sea.