Nonnina had lain in her bed, rosary tangled in her fingers, staring at the ceiling as the sounds traveled through the walls. Zuccherino's cries, Diavolino's voice, the rhythmic protest of the headboard against the wall.
She should have been scandalized. Instead, her chest ached with a complicated joy.
He had found someone who could reach him. Her Diavolino.
Still, Nonnina knew the world they lived in. The Genovese curse would not allow softness. She had seen this story unfold too many times. A powerful man falls only because love makes you visible.
She prepared coffee strong enough to wake the dead. She poured juice into crystal glasses and arranged breakfast neatly on a silver tray.
As she approached Luca's bedroom, the door opened.
Luca stepped out barefoot, shirtless, hair disheveled. Faint red marks traced his chest and neck. His eyes were softer.
"Morning, Nonnina," he said, reaching for her and kissing her hair.
