Valentina MORETTI
Matteo was down in the garden, talking with Donna Pia about the tomato plant.
I sat in the iron chair on the terrace and called Luca.
"Who's going?"
"Me, Raffaele, Matteo, and twelve elite soldiers."
"I want to go."
"Valentina… You don't have training."
"Luca." I took a deep breath. "I went to Villa Salina three times with Mamma when I was a child. I know the layout of the upper floor, I know where his study is, the service door off the kitchen, the wall safe behind our great-grandfather's portrait. You don't."
"Bella mia."
"And he's my father, Luca."
"Cazzo, Valentina."
"I'm going."
"I can't lose you."
I felt a tightness in my chest.
"You won't. I'm a Moretti now, Luca. But I'm a Rossi by birth too. I'm not going to sit in Capri having coffee with the nonna while you walk into the house where I was born to kill him."
On the other end of the line, I heard him rest his forehead against something wooden—the door of his father's study, maybe, or the desk.
"Bella mia."
"Sì."
"Salerno. Friday, the Hotel Lucia, on Via Velia."
"Va bene."
"Don't tell anyone. Not even the nonna."
"Sì."
"Are you really all right?"
I swallowed hard. My free hand moved down, slowly, and rested open on my belly over the white blouse.
"I am."
I'm not, I thought. But not today.
"Va bene," he said. Then, low, in his end-of-call way: "Ti amo, bella mia."
"Me too."
He hung up, and I stayed on the terrace.
I looked at the hand on my belly.
Seven days, I thought.
Seven days until I set foot again in the house where I was born. And it'll be to kill the man who calls himself my father.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
I felt a stubborn tear slide down, but I didn't wipe it away.