Page 23 of Promise Maker

I remember closing the door to the balcony beforegoing to sleep. Now, the curtain is blowing in the light breeze.

Sitting up, I rub my eyes and expel a razor-sharpbreath. It requires strength to leave the bed and even to shower.

Afterward, I rifle in the closet, when really allI want is to put on pajamas and crawl back under the sheets. But I need thatphone to let Jazmine know I’m alive. I’m sure she’s beyond worried.

I haul on a floral dress, forgoing a bra. The darkfabric is light enough for the warm weather.

Brushing my curls into a bun, I step into theslippers at the dresser, take another moment to draw for courage, then leavethe room.

I mosey down the bright hallway until reaching themain entry, and from there follow the scent of coffee to a massive traditional-stylekitchen with a rustic appeal.

Paoletta’sstandingat the stove, stirring a pot.

Mrs. Martelli and Francesca pause their chatterand look at me in the tall archway.

“Good morning,” I greet with an awkward wave.

“Buongiorno,” Paoletta andMrs. Martellirespond.

“Morning, Solari,” Francesca says before sippingher coffee, silvery eyes watching me over the mug.

“Caffècon pane?”Paolettaoffers from the counter.

I pick at my dress while repeating the words in myhead. “Did you ask if I want coffee and bread?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Martelli perks up as if impressed.“She did. The loaf is still hot. It’s delicious with jam.”

“Oh, that sounds good.” I smile at the older lady.“Thank you.”

The cook bobs. “You learned our language?”

“A little,” I reply, animating with my hand. “I’vebeen meaning to learn more but kept putting it off.”

Mrs. Martelli tapers her gaze, studying me. “Comesit, Solari.”

Not a second after lowering into the chair, I ask,“Where’s Domenico?”

Francesca raises her flawless brows, curiosityblooming in her appearance.

“He said I could call my friend,” I explain.

Mrs. Martelli hums, eyes dropping to the platebefore her. “He’s clearing his head.”

“Clearing his head?” I repeat.

Francesca explains amid picking at her biscotti.“Sometimes, when he goes out with Father, it takes him a bit to get out of thatmindset.”

“Oh.” I let her words seep in, noting how theyrefer to Mr. Martelli asfatherand notdad, like me.

Dad…

No. I won’t do it.

I refuse to cry in front of Mrs. Martelli andFrancesca. I don’t need their pity.

I compose myself asPaolettasets a plate and mug before me.

“Grazie,” I tell her.

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