It took a moment for Valerio to process what she was saying, and by then, the waiter had arrived with the bill.
He stared. “You’re a prostitute?”
He hadn’t meant to speak so loudly. The words just fell out.
“No!” Maria gasped, face flushing.
The waiter set down the bill and hurried away.
Valerio leaned in, and spoke more quietly this time. “Then why are you asking for money?”
Her body was tense, expression taut. For a moment, he thought she would bolt out of the restaurant. But she seemed to make a deliberate effort to calm herself. She breathed deeply, gave a Mona Lisa smile, and leaned forward.
“Every relationship is a transaction,” she said. “I just prefer to keep my relationships well defined. I prefer dating mature men. They’re more practical about this, they appreciate what I can offer, and they can afford to keep me happy. If you keep me happy, I’ll keep you very happy.”
“You’ve done this before?”
“Like I said, my last relationship just ended. He was a NATO officer and he’s moved back to Brussels.”
Valerio took out his wallet, placed on the table every euro he had with him. It was barely enough to cover the bill.
“You’re a very beautiful woman,” he told Maria. “But you’re also young—and this is a dangerous game you’re playing. The men who do this…they may think you owe them more than you want to offer. You could get hurt.”
Now she really did get angry. Patches of red rose in her cheeks. She stood, and spoke in a clipped tone.
“You don’t know the first thing about me. I’m not some naive, stupid girl. I don’t need your lectures.”
—
Valerio watched as she strode away, smelling the last tones of her sweet perfume. His phone rang.
It was his mother.
He picked up. “Ciao, Mamma.”
His words were answered by a panicked wail.
Valerio stood from the table and strode to the restaurant entrance. Through the glass doors, the rain came down in sheets.
“Mamma,” he begged. “Please, Mamma! Talk to me! What’s happened?”
The screaming stopped, and Valerio listened to his mother’s labored breathing, then a grunting sob.
“So terrible,” she moaned. “So much blood!”
“Where are you?” he shouted. “Tell me where you are!”
Without thinking, without waiting to shrug his jacket across his shoulders, he pushed through the glass doors and stepped into the street. Rain battered Valerio’s body, and poured in icy rivulets down his shirt as he ran.
Three
The crowd clustered like ants under the protection of the elaborate Baroque entryway of the massive cathedral.
Only one person stood in the piazza.
Arms outstretched, Leonora Alfieri looked like a statue of the Madonna—palms up to receive the rain. It was only as Valerio drew closer to his mother that he saw the reason: She was trying to wash the blood from her hands.
“Mamma, are you hurt?” he called, words drowned in the storm.
