He was ashamed of himself for dealing so baldly with Franco Ungaretti instead of with his own niece. It should have been Emma’s decision to make. Indulging Franco’s puerile cravings should have had nothing to do with it. But he had to have a “yes”; there were no other options. And he knew his chances were best with Franco.

Franco shrugged. His animal instincts sensed a shift in the balance of power. “A Lancia? I don’t know.” He studied his extended left foot. “It’s a nice car, I suppose. But a Ferrari… now there’s an automobile for you.”

Domenico held in his anger. This animal was haggling over the use of his wife’s body. Not as a question of principle, of “yes” or “no,” but of price.

“A Ferrari,” he said through compressed lips. “Yes, all right, that would also be possible.”

“What if she has a miscarriage? What if the child is a girl?”

Domenico shivered. On their own, his fingers traced the sign of the cross. These things must not, would not, happen. “I would still consider that you had fulfilled your part of the bargain. What do you say?”

“Uncle-” Emma said, and Domenico held his breath. “What does Aunt Stefania… how does Aunt Stefania…” She bit her lip and was silent.

She had hit on a sore point, and Domenico was honest, if halting, about it. “Your aunt is not entirely… comfortable with the arrangement. Naturally enough, she would prefer that it not be necessary. But she understands the need. She will love the child as her own, you should have no fear on that score. And…,” he hesitated, hoping he was still telling the truth, “… and she will love you none the less for it.”

“I see.” Emma didn’t look much comforted.

Franco patted her shoulder. “Give us time to think it over,” he said. “We’ll talk about it and let you know our decision tomorrow.” He gave Emma a remnant of the old, oily smile. “All right, sweetheart?”

Emma nodded, looking at neither of them.