NINETEEN

Lucia

November 1, 1943

Carlo stepped into the alley and nearly fell backward when he saw Lucia there, pressed flat in the darkest shadow. She stared at him, blank inside. It was as if a wave had crashed through her soul, sweeping her bare. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t move.

“Lucia. I’m sorry . . .” He stood before her, traced in moonlight, clearly at a loss.

She shook her head, equally lost. But with the movement, her thoughts whirred to life. It was Carlo. How could it possibly be Carlo? Tears thickened Lucia’s throat, coming from nowhere. She found herself collapsing over her own knees like a rag doll, as if her bones had liquified in the shock. “I thought you were someone else,” she managed to gasp. “A Nazi . . .”

His hand landed on her arm, and he hoisted her upright, keeping his body at a polite distance. But his hand stayed on her elbow, helping her stand.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I shouldn’t have followed you. I was just worried about you walking home alone, after curfew—”

Her mind swung into focus, alert.

“How did you know?” She shook him from her elbow, straightening on her own. “How did you know I’d be out here alone?” Her questions multiplied, yet unspoken. Where had he come from? Why was he here, standing before her in a dark alley after six long years? Where had he been?

“I’m Gianluca.” He dropped the words like stones, waiting for their impact.

“L’Allodola’s contact?” She started to shake her head again, stunned afresh. The girl worked for him? She’d known about Carlo all along? Betrayal seemed to lap at Lucia’s feet like an ocean, returning again and again.

He guessed what she was thinking. “None of this is her fault. I sent her to check on you because I was worried about you, with your family’s background. I was terrified that you’d be persecuted after the war. She didn’t know our history. She thought you were married to somebody else. And that your son . . .”

“Our son.” Anger flared in Lucia’s heart, giving her strength. “Though he’s never had a father. How long have you been following me? What gives you the right?”

He slung his hands in his pockets, sheepish, and shook his head. His eyes caught the moonlight. “You insisted on joining up, Lucia. I didn’t see that coming. And now you’re in such a precarious position, and I feel responsible. So I’ve been shadowing you when I can, to make sure you’re safe—”

“Sì? When you’ve never wondered if I was safe for the past six years? When you never once felt responsible for me or your son? Save your worry for someone else.”

He slumped a little, and the smell of him drifted through her, knocking her off-balance again. He smelled the same as she remembered, of soap and smoke and something warm, like spice. She tightened her arms over her chest, glaring at him, though suddenly she wanted to fall into him. She wanted to beat his chest, to wail.

Somewhere beyond the city walls, a plane droned, its noise expanding. They both froze. The Allies continued to bomb the outskirts of the city periodically, taking out railroad lines, stations, and bridges. They had no reason to hit Rome’s center, but Lucia still held her breath, waiting for the bombs to fall somewhere else and dispel her fear. Carlo cocked his head, listening. An explosion thundered in the distance, followed by several more. His eyes stilled, two dark pools, as if measuring thuds and concussions and drawing up coordinates. She squinted in the moonlight, taking him in, while somewhere, not far off, the world burned. He looked the same, though thinner than she remembered. His dark hair seemed to be flecked with gray, but maybe that was just the moonlight. He wasn’t yet thirty.

“Where have you been all these years?” she said when the roar of bursting bombs died. The drone of motors faded from the sky.

He hesitated, pushing his silvered hair back with his wide hands.

“Answer me,” she whispered. The words cracked as she said them, and an ache expanded around her heart.

His voice was gravelly when he found it. “I went to Spain at first. After I came back, I was arrested for being a dissident and sent into confino politico—three years ago. I got out of political exile just before Mussolini fell.”

She nodded, as if this was explanation enough, but fury boiled in her chest. He’d gone to Spain. When she was struggling to nurse a baby and keep the money coming from her father for the apartment and maintain her dignity while neighbors whispered . . . he’d been in Spain.

During the civil war there, she realized. Had he fought in it? Like her brother Marco, but on the opposite side? He’d left her to fight another country’s war? Every realization felt like a new bomb, detonating in her soul.

“I can see that I never really knew you,” she said at last. “I don’t know you at all.”

“Please, Lucia—I didn’t realize you were going to have a child. I can explain everything. I never would have left—”

“It doesn’t matter.” She stepped out from the shadows, staring right into his moonlit eyes. “We will go on as if this never happened. You will continue to be Gianluca, and nothing more. I will continue to do my bit until the war ends. And then we’ll part ways for good.”

Carlo pushed the hair from his forehead, clearly struggling for words. The ache in her heart was unbearable, but she straightened her spine and lifted her chin. She’d suffered enough sorrow to know how to hide it, even from him.

He cleared his throat to find his voice. “I want to meet our child. Matteo.”

“It’s too late.”

She stepped away, turning to continue on down the dark alley, alone.