The muscle was still there. The strong arms and legs coiled around him in passion gave proof of that often enough. But Benito barely noticed. His entire existence seemed nothing but a world of warmth, wetness, softness, all aglow with candlelight and his own dreams, finally boiling to the surface.
The first time he told her he loved her, Maria didn’t even scowl at him. Indeed, she smiled.
“You don’t have to say that, Benito,” she murmured softly.
“I wanted to,” he insisted. Feeling a bit of the old street savvy wailing somewhere in his heart—you idiot!—but not much. Hardly any, in truth.
Maria shook her head. “Please—don’t. The word is cheap. Caesare showered me with it like false coins. I don’t want to hear it any more.”
So he subsided, for a time, distracted easily enough by Maria’s next wave of passion. She might not want to hear the word with her ears, but every other part of her body seemed eager to listen. Besides, it was hard to stay poetic with Maria. She made him laugh too much.
When she wasn’t criticizing him, that is. Usually both at the same time.
“What did that silly Sarispelli teach you, anyway?” she grumbled at one point. “I’m not a wooden plank being nailed on a ship, you know? And that thing of yours is way too big for a nail in the first place.”
By now, Benito was relaxed enough to give an honest answer. “Hey, she’s nice. I don’t think she really knew any more than I did.”
“Guess not,” agreed Maria.
Benito was even relaxed enough to be smart instead of street-savvy stupid. “Show me, then. Please.”
“Good boy,” gurgled Maria happily, and proceeded to do so. Some time later, as she cried out with pleasure—much louder than she had before—Benito whispered the words again. Moaned them, rather, since he was awash in his own ecstasy.
Maria slapped the back of his head, sure enough. But, that done, the same hand which slapped began to caress and clutch. And stroked him, softly and steadily, as they lay in each others’ arms afterward, pooled in their own moisture.
“That stinking bastard Aldanto was good for something,” Maria whispered. “I give it to you as a gift.”
“I love you,” he whispered back.
She didn’t slap him, this time. But her hand came up and closed his mouth. “Don’t, Benito. Please. Tonight is too special, for both of us. Just let it be what it is, that’s all.”
He never spoke the words again that night, even though it lasted almost until dawn. Before he finally fell asleep, not long after Maria, he raised himself on one elbow and gazed down upon her nude body lying next to him. He had never seen anything so beautiful in his life, and knew that he never would. Fifteen years old be damned. Some things are certain.
Still, he didn’t say the words, even though she was no longer awake to rebuke him. In some obscure way, he couldn’t.
He puzzled at the problem, for a bit. Just as he drifted into slumber, it came to him. He could never steal anything from Maria, he realized. Not even words of love.
Chapter 78
“We have the dagger. It’s a Ferrara-steel blade with scarlet and blue tassels,” said Retired Admiral Dourso, one of Petro’s fellow Signori di Notte. “We have the witnesses—one who saw him lurking in the alley, and two who heard him utter angry threats at the bishop. You were there. It was the night he was arrested in that affray with the Knights and Servants of the Trinity.”
Petro Dorma took a deep breath. “Bishop Capuletti was killed at about midnight?”
The admiral nodded. “The body was still warm when it was found, just before midnight. The clothes were barely wet. I’m sorry, Petro. I must take Marco Valdosta into custody.”
Petro shook his head at his older colleague. “Admiral, I haven’t had much sleep. I must tell you that some hours after midnight, I became an uncle.”
It took the salt-and-pepper-haired admiral a few moments to work this out. “Valdosta’s child?”
Petro thought the little girl looked very like its father. But that was another matter for later. “My sister, Angelina, has had a daughter, yes. The child is rather premature.”