Chapter 17: Who Asked Whom

The party ended at one, and by two Luca's mother had sent every guest home.

I sat on the edge of our bed with my shoes in my hand and a split lip.

Luca stood at the dresser taking off his cufflinks.

"Carla said it wasn't my idea," I said. "The sick man."

His hands stopped.

"Tell me," I said.

"It isn't what you think."

"Then it won't hurt to hear it."

He set the cufflinks down, one and then the other, and turned.

"In September I wrote to your mother," he said.

"I'd had a photograph of you on my desk for eleven years. I asked her for you."

"You asked."

"I asked. I offered her a price. She named it." He rubbed his jaw.

"She wrote back that you'd never take a healthy man, because every healthy man in Brooklyn belonged to a family at war.

"She said you'd take a dying one, if he looked harmless."

"She told you to keep up the cough."

"She told me to make sure you believed it."

I put the shoes on the floor.

"So I walked into your plan," I said.

"You walked into hers." His voice went low. "I've thought about that every day.

"You married a dying man to spite your sister, and I let you, because I wanted you.

"I thought once you won, you'd leave."

"Is that what you believed?"

"It's what I believe now."

"Luca."

"You wanted to hurt Carla. I was the file that did it."

I stood up and crossed the carpet.

"I didn't pick you because of Carla," I said.

"Gemma."

"I picked you because of the photograph in the file.

"You were on a boat in a freezing wind, hauling a rope with your bare hands, and you were laughing."

I put my palms flat on his chest.

"Every other man in that folder wore a coat. You were the only one having a good time."

He did not speak.

"I'm not leaving," I said. "Not when I win, and not after. Do you understand me?"

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