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There was an edge to his voice Not defiance, exactly, but so close to it

“I bet it was an interesting journey,” she said softly

“I am a very private man, Emilia mia I have been asked to tell the story of my life at least a hundred times but it is a story that is no one’s business but my own”

She could alo up around hiht—his life was his private affair Still, after the intiht…

“I understand”

A muscle knotted in his jaw Then he put down his cup, reached for her hand and brought it to his lips

“No You do not understand It has never been anyone’s business—until noant you to know about me”

“Marco You don’t have to—”

“Italy is different from America It is all very modern, but under the surface many of the old ways still survive There is what remains of centuries-old aristocracy There are those with new money There is a middle class Sain “And then there is what Italians call the popolino”

“The people,” she said

“Si The people What they really are is the underclass The poor The uneducated I was born to a teenage nant with me”

Emily wanted to take him in her arms but she knew better Instead, she nodded

“It must have been a hard life for her And for you”

He shrugged “She died when I was small I don’t remember her very well”

“And what happened to you?”