Page 153 of Marcello

Fausto would.

I tried desperately to figure out how to escape his grasp.

Finally, towards the end of September, I called him.

I figured I might as well ask. It might make him angry, but it was worth the risk.

He didn’t answer.

I called again.

No answer.

Shit.

That had never happened before – maybe the asshole was psychic.

I didn’t leave a message. Instead, I just trusted him to call me back when he was ready.

It never occurred to me that he might be dead.

The night after I called Fausto, Giulietta and I had our first fight.

We were back in the same hotel. As we ate our room service dinner, I decided to try again. “Have you thought any more about it?”

“About what?”

“About you moving in with me.”

I’d been pressing her pretty hard, to be honest – but that was because I wanted her to be the last thing I saw when I went to sleep, and the first thing I saw when I woke up.

I was expecting her to say ‘no’ once again –

But she totally threw me for a loop.

“If we did it,” she said, “we’d have to leave Naples.”

…oh shit…

She’s serious!

But there was no way I could leave Naples. Not unless I wanted to sign the death warrant for Mama, Gemma, and Edoardo.

I couldn’t say that, though, so I just asked, “Why?”

“Because my father will track me down, take me back home, and I’ll never see you again.”

That was pretty fuckin’ funny.

I imagined some old Italian guy with a pot belly showing up to scream at me.

That was the one good thing about being in the Camorra: outside of Fausto and Cesare, I wasn’t afraid of anyone.

“I’d like to see him try,” I said.

I probably sounded a little too smug, because she flashed me an irritated look. “It would be a lot easier if we just left Naples.”

I could see where this was going. “Well, I can’t do that.”