Page 17 of Marcello

When it was time to go, she fished in her purse for money to pay the bill.

“I can pay that,” I said, feeling guilty. I didn’t think she should pay when I had a couple grand in my pocket.

Not that I could tell her that.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she replied. “You just got to town.”

“Seriously, I can pay for it – ”

She slapped down a twenty and said, “Take me out after you get your first paycheck.”

I wasn’t sure if Take me out meant a friendly meal or a date.

I wasn’t entirely sure whether this was a date or not.

But I didn’t want to screw things up with the only person in Naples who’d helped me out, so I just nodded. “Deal.”

When we left the pizzeria, she asked, “You want to come over and smoke out?”

I looked over at her incredulously. “You mean – marijuana?”

She started laughing uncontrollably.

“What?” I asked, incensed.

“You’re so cute – ‘Marijuana’?!” she mimicked me, making me sound like an old lady clutching her pearls.

“Hey – come on,” I said with a sheepish grin. “I just… I’ve never smoked pot before.”

It was true. As the son of a judge, I’d had the fear of God drilled into me about drugs. During high school and college, I’d stuck strictly to alcohol.

Funny that my father had been so adamant about drugs, then gone and sold out to the fucking mafia.

“Well, you’re in a new city,” Federica said. “New job, new life – might as well try something else new.”

I wasn’t super excited about the prospect, but again, I didn’t want to piss off the one person who’d helped me.

And what the hell else was I going to do? Go back to my shitty hotel and stare at the ceiling?

“…okay… why not,” I agreed.

6

Federica lived about a mile from the pizzeria in a crumbling building down a grimy alleyway. There wasn’t an elevator, and we had to walk up three floors to her place.

The building wasn’t in much better shape than my hotel, to be honest –

But her apartment was totally different.

“Don’t mind the mess,” she said as she opened the door.

When she flicked the switch on the wall, a couple of lamps came on. They were draped with colored cloths over the shades so they gave off different hues of soft light.

It was a studio apartment, small but cozy. It was cluttered as hell, but it was also decorated really cool.

Nearly every inch of her walls was covered with artwork like the stuff I’d seen out on the streets. Lots of paintings of women, of all different races and body types, with feminist slogans in Neapolitan.

“Is this your stuff?” I asked, impressed.