LUCA MORETTI
Acquaviva came into the study at eleven forty.
I was standing by the window. An unlit cigar between my fingers, a glass of whiskey on the table beside me. The whole house was silent—Valentina had fallen asleep an hour ago, in our room, her hand under the pillow, the way she slept.
"Padrone. I've narrowed it to three names."
I didn't turn around.
"Three."
"Sì, padrone."
"Don't tell me yet."
"Padrone?"
I lit the cigar and took a long drag.
"Forty-eight hours, Carlo. I need forty-eight hours before I hear the three names."
"Capisco."
He waited a second, then gave a minimal nod of his head and left.
I stayed at the window. Out there, Vesuvius slept, black against a black sky. It didn't answer, of course. Vesuvius never answered.
I took another drag. I thought of Valentina sleeping, her hand under the pillow, her black hair spread across the white sheet. I thought of the three names Acquaviva had folded inside that brown briefcase.
If it's someone she loves, I thought, I kill them all the same.