“Allora,” he repeated, and then stumbled along with his mutilation—understandable enough but painful to the ear—of her language. “As you know, a friend of the Reich was murdered on your father’s property three days ago.”
What it sounded like to her was, “So, as you knows a friend from the Reich and to your father last week killed on the land.”
She summoned as much confidence as she could, kept her eyes fixed on his, and nodded, once. An accident, she wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come.
“We just now questioned all the workers, and your father. A certain price had to be paid.”
“You murdered one of our horses.”
The man let out a short laugh. “Murdered, yes. Even then, of course, no one says to know anything about the tragic death of a man.”
“Nor do I,” she said. “Massimo was a great friend of the family, for many years, and my father is grieving terribly.”
“And yourself?”
“I’ve been vomiting for three straight days. I’ve barely eaten. We had a peaceful life, always, until—”
“Until the war arrived and the German forces occupied your beautiful lands, yes?”
Vittoria squeezed her lips together, drew and released a breath. “Please don’t speak for me. We’ve had a peaceful life. Nothing like this has ever happened to us. This man was my godfather. I loved him like an uncle.”
“Yes, an uncle. Why was it that one of the serving girls just now claims you were screamed when he was found in your room late in the night?”
“I was having a nightmare. He was sleeping in the guest room beside mine. It was natural for him to come to my aid.”
“A nightmare about what?” The captain slid his chair an inch closer, so that his knees were touching hers. “About the German officer?”
“About my mother. She died not long ago. I was dreaming that she was out walking in our fields and a wolf spotted her and was approaching. I was trying to warn her.”
“You’re lying.”
“Why would I?”
“Because perhaps you kill our friend, your so-called godfather.”
“Why would I do such a horrible thing!”
“Because perhaps he shows the interest on you, like I do, the interest on a beautiful young woman. The sex interest. And came into your room in the night and caused you to screaming for help. Perhaps his sex interest makes you disgusted.”
“And then I did what?” Vittoria said, her voice rising and cracking and echoing out into the foyer. “Found a bomb in our house and put it inside his car in the middle of the night? Or mined the road leading to the city? Turned suddenly into a murderer? An expert with explosives!”
The captain was peering at her, burning his eyes into her. He reached across the small distance and put his hands on her knees. Vittoria flinched and pulled herself back against the sofa, but his hands followed her, crept upward a bit. “You are having the problem when men touching you, I think,” the captain said.
The second his hand touched the cloth of her dress, Vittoria’s courageous act abandoned her. She couldn’t speak.
“You know, of course,” the man went on quietly, “that I could taking you into the bedroom upstairs and do whatever I am wanting with you. Now. This minute. Have my men doing whatever they wanting. You know this, yes? Who is going to stop us, your father? The old man in the barn? The idiot?”
From the neck down, her body had turned to stone.
The captain held his hands on her for a long minute, then squeezed once with his fingertips, released her, and leaned back. “But your father was been kind to us, and perhaps even support our presence here. Who knows? Who can say about Italians?”
She watched him, heard voices outside the door. Paolo’s calm voice. Her brother’s, not calm at all.
“Plus.” The captain reached for his hat, and flicked the piece of straw onto the floor with one finger. There was a loud commotion now on the front steps. She could hear Enrico’s high-pitched wailing. He was calling her name again and again. Vita! Vita! Vita! “What I wanting to do with you,” the captain said, grinning, “what I imagining to do, I can do anytime. Anytime that I want. We can be here for years, drinking your father’s wine, and there are many women now for us for the time. Women come to us of their own reason, to show their gratefulness.”
To have something to eat, Vittoria thought, and very nearly said it.
“So for now, stay here in your peaceful wine palace with the idiot and the old man. But, if we know that you have anything to do on the death of our friend, or that you are helping to our enemies in any way—any way—then you find yourself in our house in Montepulciano, in the upstairs room, begging us to kill you. Begging us. You understand?”