Chapter 8: The Portrait

At nine the next morning, Raffaele was dressed and shaved and did not look at her.

"Last night was a mistake," he said, at the door of the safe house. "It won't happen again."

"Then why are you the one who can't look at me?" Gemma asked.

His jaw tightened, and he went down the stairs.

In the yard, a dozen staff stood waiting to take her back to the villa, as they would any contract wife.

Gemma walked out in yesterday's torn red dress with his shirt over it, her hair a mess and her mouth swollen.

She smiled at every one of them.

It was the smile he had ordered for the cameras, and she gave it to the cook, the drivers and the girl who carried the towels.

The cook smiled back before she could stop herself.

Raffaele caught it from the car, and his eyes narrowed.

"That's not the smile I meant," he said.

"It's the only one I have left," Gemma said. "I'll take my terms now."

"Deed, portrait, phone. You said I'd decide how."

"I decided," he said. "Rosanna's sent word that she'll be at home this morning. Take six men."

Gemma blinked.

"You're sending me to the house?"

"You're going to take what's yours," he said. "Don't come back without it."

She did not know why he had changed his mind.

She did not ask.

The Albertini house stood on Hanover Street in the North End, narrow and brick, with a red door and window boxes.

Gemma got out of the black car in front of it with six Sandrelli men in dark coats behind her.

Neighbors came to their windows.

An old woman on the stoop across the street put down her coffee.

Rosanna opened the red door in a pale blue robe.

Her face went through three expressions in one second, and she settled on a smile.

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