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Gaetano’s chest tightened. “Congratulations.”
“May I ask, are you well?”
“Yes, why?”
Bartolomeo lifted an eyebrow. “You were at the doctor’s so long.”
“Oh yes.” Gaetano slid his note into his leather envelope. “I guess we ended up talking.”
“Why did you go? Have you been sick?”
“No, I go every year.” Gaetano wasn’t a good liar. “That’s probably why we talked so long. He’s chatty.”
“Who’s your doctor?”
“Dottor Marconi, on Via Maqueda.”
“Oh, I use him, too. He’s not that chatty.”
“Then I guess I’m the chatty one.” Gaetano headed for the door.
“Where are you going now?”
Gaetano left, ignoring the question. He was out of lies.
And he had work to do.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Mafalda settled herself and Lucia under an umbrella pine against a crumbling stone wall outside the village of Saint Elia. Her makeshift camp had a magnificent view of the jagged camelback of Cape Zafferano, jutting out into the sea, and the familiar natural terrain of rocks, prickly pear cactus, and palm trees around her.
Mafalda had realized she had to improve her aim to protect herself, so she practiced throwing every day while Lucia napped under the tree. She picked up a rock from the pile she had accumulated and sized up the distance to her target, which was another rock on a boulder.
She threw the rock, but missed. She picked up another rock and threw it. She missed again, but got closer.
She threw another rock, then another, missing both times. She wiped her brow. She had to do better. She picked up another rock, struck by a thought. Maybe she needed someone to throw the rockat.
Petra, her mother-in-law.
Mafalda threw the rock and hit the target with acrack.
And she smiled.
It was the middle ofthe night, and Mafalda walked through the village, holding Lucia. The houses were dark, and no sound came from within. Nobody was out except for a stray tabby that ran by, itstail in the air. She found the piazza, washed herself and the baby in the fountain, and looked around for morsels of food. Her stomach growled, and she was losing weight. She had to eat to keep her milk up.
Suddenly she heard footsteps and glanced over her shoulder. At the end of the street was the dark figure of a man. His silhouette was brawny.
Mafalda started walking faster, holding Lucia tighter. She knew what horror could befall a woman alone. She looked around for a rock, but there wasn’t one. She spotted an alley ahead and hurried that way, trying not to panic.
She turned into the alley, but it ended in a high gate with bars. She was trapped.
The footsteps kept coming her way, the man speeding up. She couldn’t run or he would catch her. She was struck by a bolt of fear.
She edged down the alley toward the gate. The man appeared at the entrance to the alley, a shadowy figure backlit by the moon.
Mafalda raised a palm. “Stop! If you come near me, I’ll scream!”
The man raised his arms. “I mean you no harm. My name is Francesco, and I need something from you.”
