There’s cologne. A man. And it’s fresh in the air—not the stale remnants of yesterday’s guest.
Loretta sets out the cups and we sit, overlooking the lights of the city. I drop the licorice aperitif in my coffee and hold the bottle over hers. She nods, and I use it to correct hers, then I set down the bottle and lean back. When the breeze flows from the west, the cologne smell disappears behind roses.
“I’m not asking a lot,” I say. “Tell me the problem you have now that you didn’t have the last time I brought her.”
She sips her coffee. I don’t touch mine. I don’t even rub lemon on the rim of my cup. It would be too strong in my nose and mouth. I cannot lose the advantage of knowing a man lurks in the shadows.
“The problem,” she says, “is nobody asks you to explain anything. We all just jump. Meet me here? Like this.” She snaps her fingers. “We do it. Keep my wife in your house? Done. Throw yourself off this cliff?”
“I didn’t ask you for that.”
The breeze changes direction, and the cologne comes up from the east. Behind me and a little to the left. He is wide, whomever he is, likely to attack from my non-dominant side. I cap the sambuca.
“Not yet.” She sips her espresso and does not look behind me even for a moment. “You need to talk to her. Tell her you’re still mourning her sister.”
“I’m not.” The air changes again, but I don’t need it. I feel him breathing. He’s in the bushes of the terraced yard, heading up the concrete steps to the patio. If there wasn’t a man present, I would explain that I married Rosetta because I promised to. But Violetta? I didn’t need a promise to marry her. I needed a reason to stay away from her. She scares the hell out of me. “Violetta is my wife now.”
The sound of his feet on the stones is hidden by the wind, but I feel the air move and the electricity from Loretta. Grabbing the sambuca bottle by the neck, I stand, spinning around and swinging the bottle in a heavy arc.
I manage to override the torque of my swing about an inch from his left temple because my eyes deliver two pieces of information to my brain.
One, the man is Damiano.
Two, his hands are up to show they’re empty.
“Cazzo,” I bark, snapping the bottle back. As I do, I notice the bulge in his jacket. Hands up or not, he’s carrying.
“Cristo,” Damiano says. “Little jumpy, no?”
“What the fuck, Dami?”
“I was just coming to say hello.”
“Like a cat going to bacon.” I sit down again and sip my coffee, an indication that I’ll stay. “That cologne stinks like a fresh asshole.”
Damiano sits across from me, not hiding the gun. I won’t hide mine either.
“He didn’t think you’d meet him.” Loretta stands.
“So you let him wait in the bushes?”
She winces in reaction to the anger in my voice. Good. She should flinch, and yet, I shouldn’t blame her. She has little power to choose her path.
“You know I don’t like being played with,” I add.
“It’s on me,” Damiano says, then adds a formal nod. “Chiedo perdono.”
I’m being placated, but tonight, my curiosity is stronger than the insult.
Loretta folds her arms. “He has something important to tell you.”
“Thanks, babe.” Damiano pats her hand, then turns to me. “You’re so paranoid. What the hell was I going to do? Kill you? For what? This one?” He jerks his thumb toward Loretta. “She’d fucking shoot me for touching you wrong. Ain’t that right?” He looks at her with affection, which she returns.
“Shooting would be too good for you.” She goes inside.
Damiano watches her ass as she walks back toward the house. “You gave up a good woman.”
“I had duties elsewhere.”
“Sure.” He drops into her seat and pours the liqueur into the cups. “Speaking of. How’s that spark plug you married?”
He could be asking an innocent question to make small talk, or he could be taking my temperature to see how hot I’m running at the mention of my wife.
“Ask Siena.”
“Oh, yeah, I heard she came by your place in Amalfi to say hello.”
“Did you send her?”
“Why would I do that?”
I don’t know why he’d send his sister to cause trouble with Violetta and me, unless he didn’t know if it would be trouble and he wanted to find out.
Loretta comes out of the kitchen holding two cups with ice and sets them on the glass tabletop with a click.
“Look at her,” he says to me, talking about Loretta as if she’s not there. “Good as bread.”
“Tell me if you need anything.” She glances at me, then pats Dami’s shoulder.
The door clicks behind her. He pours sambuca for each of us and holds up his.
“Salute.”
“Salute.”
We touch glasses and drink.
“Now,” I say. “You can tell me what you want.”
He fixes his cuffs, rearranges his legs, lets his eyes wander like a bored child in summer school. “Your uncle Marco. On the other side.”
Marco is my zia Paola’s husband, and while my aunt raised me when my mother couldn’t, Marco allowed her to take me in, and I’m frequently torn between gratitude and disdain for the fact that he did no more. He was never a father to me, and not much of a father to Gia and Tavie either.
“What about him?” I ask.
“He got himself into a little bit of trouble with my dad.”
I try not to laugh and fail. Marco Polito has no business getting into trouble with Cosimo Orolio, who runs Napoli like our old boss, Emilio Moretti, ran territory ten times the size.
Damiano refills his glass and tops off mine. “He borrowed some money to cover a bet, couldn’t make the payments, this and that, my father picked up the loan—”
“You’re speaking to your father now? Since when?”
Damiano pauses by drinking. The ice topples into his upper lip. He wipes the cold water away with his fingertips. “Not at the moment.”
“That’s a shame.”
“They say blood’s thicker than water, but when I was thirsty, what did he offer me?” He pours a third cup of sambuca. “Nothing. Sa-fucking-lute.” Damiano slaps back his sambuca.
This is not how we do it. We are not children or animals. He’s either been spending too much time with the college kids on the other side of the river, or he’s trying to calm his nerves.
“I’m gonna bail him out.” Damiano clicks his glass down. “Marco. Your uncle. I’m taking care of it. All I need is your blessing and it’ll be paid.”
I don’t give the blessing right away, because once I do, I’m responsible for it, and I’m not interested in crossing Cosimo Orolio right now.
“And your father agrees?”
“Through an emissary, yeah. He don’t care.”
“How’s Marco paying you back? All his pants have holes in the pockets.”
Damiano shrugs and looks away, and I know—finally—loosened by conversation and sambuca, he’s getting to his point. “I figured it’s an act of good will. Between you and me.”