driver opened her car door. She settled inside without another glance in my direction, and the car left.
Across the street a column of German soldiers gathered, which they now did with annoying regularity. Boots hammering on cobblestone mingled with a guttural rhythmic chant.
“She will pay?” Sebastian asked.
“When I deliver the dress, I’ll collect the money myself.”
He grinned. “She has gold. Money.”
“Yes.”
“Make this dress a priority. Sooner is better than later.”
“Of course.”
That evening, when the clock chimed six times, I was the last in the salon. I could have stayed a few more hours, but with the evening curfew looming, I needed to leave. I had chosen a midnight-blue silk for Signora Bianco’s dress and had cut the fabric myself. Most of the shop’s projects were well on their way to being finished, and it could all wait until morning.
Out in the warm fresh air, I hurried along the streets, crossed the cobbled piazza in the graying light, and strode past the shops. A man whistled at me. Annoyed, I kept walking south toward the Monti district and a favorite café where friends met for a drink and news of the war.
The rusty clay building had arching windows and doors surrounded by thick potted ferns and vines of ivy that coiled up to the terra-cotta roof. Though the café’s front door was closed, soft jazz music and laughter drifted out to the street. It drew me closer, and for a moment I remembered the young girl I had once been in Umbria and the day I had met my Enzo.
I had been no more than seventeen when I’d traveled with my parents from our farm in Perugia to Gubbio for the Festa dei Ceri. The small medieval village had filled with brightly colored revelers dressed in red, yellow, or black. They had come to celebrate and see the young men race with thirteen-foot wooden candles sporting the likenesses of saints. We drove north to the small village in the north of Umbria to celebrate not only the saint but my father’s new position at the university.
Childish excitement fueled me, and I ran ahead among the tightly packed bodies controlled by horsemen. When my legs and lungs finally forced me to stop, I looked up and saw Enzo standing in the crowd, watching the race. My heart stopped, and I could not take my eyes off him. As if sensing me, he had turned and smiled.
A fresh burst of laughter inside the café pulled me from my memories, and I spotted Mia through the café window. Smooth skinned, Mia wore a red dress that skimmed her already flat belly, and heeled shoes elongated her calves. Silky blonde curls framed her face and emphasized plump, moist, red-tinted lips men adored.
She was standing by a man dressed in a dark suit, smiling and flirting with him. I knocked on the window, and she looked up, grinned broadly, and hurried across the crowded room and opened the door. “Isabella, have you come to scold me? You are always so serious.”
Belladonna drops widened her pupils, creating a stunning effect. “I thought you were home, sleeping.”
“I have slept enough.” Her breath carried the strong scent of wine. “It’s time for me to get back to my life.”
“Are you sure that is wise?” I asked.
Mia curled a blonde strand around her finger. “Have you come to take me home and remind me of what good girls do?”
“What has come over you?” I asked in a low, desperate tone. “It’s been only a month.”
“I can’t stay in that dreary room another minute. All day long I hear the men moving rocks and debris. Thump. Thump. Thump. Too much death. It’s too much.”
“Your body and mind need time.”
“Look around. We have no time.” Mia grinned broadly. “Let me introduce you around. I have some very delicious men for you to meet.”
She hooked her arm in mine and led me to a table sporting several bottles of wine. She poured a glass and handed it to me. “Drink it while it’s here. It won’t last.”
“Leave with me now.”
“Drink the wine first.”
The Castelli wine had a fruity flavor with a significant kick. “It’s good. Now can we go?”
“Not the best wine, but beggars can’t be choosers.” She refilled her glass to the brim. “I need to finish my glass first.”
Mia reminded me of a tightly wound bowstring ready to snap. Instead of insisting she leave, I shifted tactics, hoping she might calm and see reason. “Who bought the wine?”
“A young soldier. Very