Page 19 of Promise Maker

She’s classy in her formal blouse, pants, andheels, exquisite jewelry adorning her attire, long brown hair in a single braidon one shoulder.

“Ilmioamore!” Mr.Martelli gushes, pulling her in for a sweet kiss and a long embrace.

“Welcome back, darlings.” Adoration laces hersmooth voice.

She kisses Francesca next and pats Domenico’scheek. It doesn’t take much to realize she’s Mrs. Martelli.

Like Francesca, I’ve never seen her before. Shedoesn’t seem to travel with her husband and son. But then again, I’ve only seenDomenico twice before last night’s horrors.

When her piercing sepia eyes, same as Domenico’s,divert to me, he introduces us. “Mother, this is Solari. Solari, this is AlinaMartelli.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Martelli,” I say politely.

“Solari,” she echoes in a soft tone as iffamiliar with my name. She carries her narrowed gaze over me in assessmentbefore taking my hands. “Welcome. So sad what you’ve endured.”

“Thank you.”

She kisses my cheek and gestures to her right.“Come.Paolettahas prepared a room for you.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through the trouble.”

She waves off my modesty. “Not at all.”

The others veer in different directions, and Ifollow Mrs. Martelli down a long hallway with arch windows offering a view ofthe ocean.

We stop at the second door on the left and enter abedroom that’s more like a royal hotel suite.

It’s pretty grand, with lovely geometric patternsin the tiles, a colorful rug beneath the bed, and antique-looking furniture.

The room is much larger and more traditional thanmy bedroom back in New Jersey. The balcony is a bonus.

I gape at all the clothes and shoes in the closetthat are strangely my style. “Oh…wow.” Even the makeup and fragrance on thedresser are spot-on.

“Nico says this is to your liking,” Mrs. Martelliremarks.

Confused, I wheel around to her. “How would heknow that?”

Her lips tilt into a sweet smile. “My son has hisways.”

“Hm. Well, it’s very nice. Thank you.”

“You must be tired. Try to rest. I’ll havePaolettabring you dinner.”

“Thank you,” is all I can say.

Mrs. Martelli struts out the door, closing itbehind her.

I walk to the balcony and stare at the sparklinglights down the hill.

After that conversation with Domenico eight yearsago, I read a lot about Sicily, determined to impress him upon his return.

My god. I never thought I’d come here under thesecircumstances.

I buckle over as the pain floods in again, yankingwhimpers out of me.

Big drops of tears roll down my cheeks.

In my attempt to draw deep breaths, the achebuilds even more, and I all but crawl to the large bed, curling into a fetalposition as immense sorrow absorbs me in its depths.

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