them for coming, out of respect to her father.
“Elisabetta, we’re so sorry.” Marco took her arm.
“Yes, we are.” Sandro took her other arm.
“Thank you both,” Elisabetta said uncomfortably. They were being nice, but competing to console her, which made her feel guilty. “I’ll be fine. Don’t you have to get to work?”
Marco squeezed her arm gently. “Sadly, I do.”
Sandro answered, “I don’t, not yet.”
Marco glanced at Sandro. “Take care of her, will you? She shouldn’t be alone.”
“Yes, of course.” Sandro nodded, and Marco kissed Elisabetta on the cheek, then left.
* * *
—
Elisabetta sat with Sandro on a bench at the cemetery, under the shade of an umbrella pine. Headstones, monuments, and mausoleums surrounded them, packed tight in rows among white oleander bushes, cypresses, and palm trees. The walkways between the graves were of yellow pebbles, and here and there a small green lizard darted into the sun, then escaped under a bush.
Her tears were finally spent, and she felt numb with grief. Sandro remained companionably silent. Her father’s grave was a few rows away, and she couldn’t bring herself to leave him just yet. She didn’t know how to separate from him. Was she supposed to just walk away?
Elisabetta wiped her face with her handkerchief. “Sorry to make you wait, Sandro. You can go if you need to.”
“No, I’m fine.”
“He wasn’t a perfect father, I know that.”
“Few are.”
“Yours is,” Elisabetta blurted out. “He’s a lawyer, an important man. Everyone looks up to him.”
“That’s true, I’m lucky in him. But he’s not perfect.” Sandro paused. “What will you do now, on your own? Can I help you? Anything you need . . .”
“No, I have it figured out. I’ll move, as rent makes up the most of our—sorry, my—monthly expenses, and I only need one bedroom.”
“You’ll stay in Trastevere, of course.”
“Yes. I’ve been looking around, but so far none of the landlords will allow Rico.”
“You can’t leave him behind. He’s your boy.”
“That, he is.”
“Maybe someday I’ll be your boy, eh? I’ll settle for second place, but not third.” Sandro smiled, and Elisabetta knew he meant Marco, but she felt awkward again and wanted to change the subject.
“Sandro, why do you say that about your father, that he’s not perfect? He’s your hero, isn’t he?”
“My hero?” Sandro pursed his lips, thinking it over. “No, not really. I love and I admire him, but I can’t say he’s my hero. I do have one, though.”
“The professor then. Levi-Civita.”
“No, not him, either.”
“Then who?”
“You, Elisabetta. You are my hero.”
“Me? I’m a waitress.” Elisabetta looked up to see if he was kidding, but his expression was sincere.
“You don’t see yourself as special, but you are. You do what needs to be done, no matter what. You kept doing after your mother left and you will keep doing after your father. I don’t know anyone who does that, but you. Only you.”
Elisabetta felt her mouth go dry, not knowing what to say, but she couldn’t deny the power of his words, or that they made her feel stronger, even on the worst day of her life.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Elisabetta
August 1938
That night, Elisabetta sat at the kitchen table watching Rico eat, still in her black dress from the funeral. The cat’s throaty chewing was the only sound in the empty apartment, and she felt her father’s absence, for he had been good company, even if he wasn’t sober. She had no one to take care of now, except Rico.
Someone knocked, the sound startling her. She rose, crossed the kitchen, and opened the door, surprised to find Marco there, smiling at her, in uniform. “Marco?”
“Elisabetta, come with me.”
“What? Where?”
“Come on! Let’s go.” Marco took her hand and led her from the apartment, then to the street, which was almost blocked by an elegant black convertible coupe with a gleaming chrome grille, curved sections over each wheel that came to a dramatic point, and more flashy chrome on the sides.
“You know this car?” Elisabetta asked, astonished.
“Yes, it belongs to my boss.” Marco strode to the passenger side door, opening it for her with a flourish. “Isn’t it beautiful? It’s a Lancia Astura, designed by Pinin Farina. Get in, I’ll take you for a ride.”
“You drive?”
“They taught me. It’s easy.”
“But you have to be twenty-one. You have to have a license. It’s against the law.”
“Elisabetta, we are the law. Now please, get in.” Marco gestured at the open passenger door, and she crossed to the car and climbed inside reluctantly, taking in the rich leathery smell of the seats. She had only