She was with a girlfriend, Dez learned, a short woman with blondish brown hair

“And where is she staying?” he asked the man whom La Duca had asked to call him from Naples.

“Grand Hotel Vesuvio.”

“Good work.”

Since his mole first called him, Dez had done more homework on la testa rossa. He’d called some of the old guard Camorra in Napoli and asked who was this father she was talking about? He learned that her father was indeed a traditore. And one who paid the ultimate price. Pathetic the rossa even cared enough to ask about him.

The man in Naples spoke. “The duke wants to know. What do you want to do with the redhead now?”

He beamed internally that the duke still trusted him, was letting him help run this game. And yet the question he’d just been asked was at once the easiest and toughest. He knew what he wanted to do to her. In fact, it would be facile, easy. But while the authorities wouldn’t blink at the killing of a Camorra drug pusher or even a higher-up, they wouldn’t turn away from the killing of an American woman. They couldn’t. Such an event would get too many headlines, bring too many eyes. And that was exactly what Dez was looking to avoid.

So Dez came up with a slightly different plan. He would scare her back to the United States. And when she was here in the red, white and blue, he would make sure she was red, white and dead.

We followed Bernard out of the Grand Hotel lobby and onto the twilit streets of Naples. A sultry feeling hung in the air-heavy and salty. People strolled along sidewalks that wrapped around the sea. Across the street, the cafés near the sailboats were bright and hopping.

“The best pizza in Naples,” Bernard said as we walked, “is a subject of massive debate. When I told people I was coming here, I started getting recommendations, and people really have opinions. They take this stuff seriously.”

Maggie gazed up at him and grinned, looking as if she was ready to hear more, to hear whatever Bernard had to say.

He’d changed from the baggy jeans and orange polo shirt to darker, still-baggy jeans and a navy blue polo shirt. I thought I spied a uniform of sorts.

“So, I’ve heard about this one restaurant from ten different people,” Bernard said. “Are you guys willing to try it?”

“Sure,” I said. “It’s good to know someone with the inside scoop.”

Bernard led us through the streets of Naples to Antica Pizzeria Brandi della Regina on a street called Anna di Palazzo. Like many other Naples streets, it was chaotic, but Pizzeria Brandi della Regina was a refuge, its ivory awnings shading it protectively from the craziness of the rest of the street.

I took a peek inside and saw a huge wood-burning oven, tiled in mosaic, the name of the restaurant spelled proudly on its flank.

As we took our seat outside, a waiter came over and boasted about the restaurant. “We are the inventors of the pizza Margherita.”

“The pizza Margherita?” Maggie said, and even in English, you couldn’t mistake her disbelief.

The waiter puffed up his chest. “Yes. In 1889. Other pizzerias, they will tell you that they invented it. They will tell you they have the real pizza of Napoli, but it is here. We invented it. We make it.”

He and Maggie had a standoff with their eyes. She caved and gave him a little shrug. Bernard laughed.

When the waiter walked away, Bernard leaned in. “They passed a law here. In order to be official pizzerias, your pizza has to be a certain width and height, and there are all these rules, like the dough has to be kneaded by hand and certain olive oil and mozzarella have to be used.”

“Seems like a lot of trouble,” Maggie said. “If a pizza is good, who cares if it’s official?”

A passing waiter apparently heard Maggie’s words and understood English. He stopped and gave her a grave look, his hand still holding aloft a tray of glasses, before he moved on.

“Sheesh,” Maggie said.

But when the pizza came, we could see what all the fuss was about. We had ordered the traditional Margherita, which sounded boring, but it was divine-the crust spongy and buttery, the buffalo mozzarella soft and bubbling, the tomatoes tasting as if they’d been picked today. We also took the recommendation of the waiter and ordered a broccoli and sausage pizza, which was enough to make all of us swoon.

In two minutes, both pizzas were gone.

Bernard looked at the empty pans, a forlorn expression passing over his features.

“We should order more,” Maggie said.

Bernard’s face lit up, and the two of them bent toward each other to consult the menu.

“What do you want, Izzy?” Bernard asked.

He seemed like the kindest of men, and since we’d left the hotel, he’d been trying hard to include me in their conversation, but it was impossible to ignore the feeling that I was on a date-their date-and yet I couldn’t have been more pleased about it. Other than Wyatt, the much-older two-timing slick boyfriend that Maggie had tried twice, she hadn’t dated much in the last few years. She’d been the third person on many an outing with Sam and me, and I was happy to return the favor.

“Whatever you guys want,” I said. “I’m game.”

As I sat across the table from the two of them, my thoughts crept to Theo. Why in the hell had I asked him to come to Italy? Aside from the night we met, I had spent very little time with him outside my condo. So what was I doing agreeing to have him come to Europe?

I looked at my watch. From what he told me, he would be landing at ten Naples time. Which was only three hours away. And what would I do with him then? Well, I mean, aside from what I usually did with him?

It was tough enough to travel internationally with a good friend. Could Theo and I handle being in another country together? Could he handle it? The kid was only twenty-two after all. Would I even like the guy outside the sex-charged confines of my condo?

After the second round of pizzas, we left the restaurant and wandered down the street until we came to a coffee bar across from a beautiful cathedral. The waiter in his white shirt and black vest frowned when I asked for something decaffeinato.

“Decaffeinato espresso?” he asked, clearly put off by the thought but willing, grudgingly, to put in the order.

“Actually, do you have decaffeinato tea?” The concept of decaf tea only made the waiter frown more.

Bernard stood, towering over the waiter as he did everyone else, although I noticed that he always stayed a step away from people, as if not wanting, intentionally, to intimidate them. But it was hard not to be intimidated when looking straight up at a huge Filipino guy, as the waiter was now doing.

Bernard said something in Italian to the man, gesturing at his watch.

“Sí, sí!” the waiter said excitedly, before pulling Bernard away.

“Be right back,” he called over his shoulder.

“What is that about?” I asked Maggie.

“I have no idea.” Her voice was tinged with awe as she watched Bernard’s retreating back. “So when is Theo getting here?”

I put my phone on the table so I’d hear it when he called or texted. “Soon.”

“I can’t wait to meet him.”

“I’m just realizing that none of my friends has ever met him.”

“No time like the present. And hey, you look great tonight.”

That afternoon, when I’d gotten back to our room after talking to the concierge, I changed out of the dress I’d worn all day. I told Maggie now what I’d learned from the concierge. “Bizarre,” she said, and she was right. Whenever I thought of the Mafia, I imagined the Mob being involved in gambling, drugs, prostitution. But fashion?

I’d had a slightly more pressing fashion dilemma that afternoon. What to wear now that Theo was coming? Maggie and I had spent some time selecting my outfit-a navy-blue sundress that showed a little cleavage.