“Only the fuzzy outlines of one, really, but I hear the armory makes fabulous gowns,” I said before I took another sip of espresso.

Elisa laughed. “This sounds delightful!”

I made my way home to Paolo’s study. He sat in his high-backed chair, reading a book. I removed my gloves and draped them over the back of the chair opposite him. “What would you say if I told you I had a solution to José’s inventory problem?”

Paolo closed his book with a crisp snap. “I would say that not even you, senhora, are capable of such miracles.”

I picked at my nails. “Well then, perhaps it’s time for me to apply for sainthood.”

Paolo’s book slipped from his hands, bouncing with a series of dull thuds across the floor. “Anita, what have you done?”

“Nothing really, only procured the funding necessary to supply the army with weapons and ammunition.”

“How? I can’t get what he needs without help or without being seen, and no aristocrat is willing to risk being openly aligned with Garibaldi.”

“Not unless said aristocrat has a wife with an expensive dress habit that requires ample funds and the freedom to buy whatever she likes.”

“You mean Elisa Profumo?”

“She’ll pay for the weapons and write in her books that the expense was to a seamstress. Meanwhile we procure whatever my husband needs.”

Paolo sat with his mouth agape. “This is truly a miracle. I’ll place the order right away.”

* * *

June 1848

Three weeks later I walked into the house after a meeting with the ladies of Genoa. As I removed my coat and gloves, I called out, “Paolo! I have new developments to tell you about. Of course, in between all the gossip.” There was an unusual silence.

“Genoan gossip is the stuff of legend.” José’s voice boomed from the doorway in which he leaned. I dropped my gloves and ran to him, wrapping my arms around his waist.

“Tesoro mio.” His voice rumbled in a deep, husky vibration as he burrowed his face into my neck. The woodsy scent of him, the sound of his voice—no other words were needed as he led me upstairs.

Later, as we lay entwined with each other, savoring our reunion, I massaged his wrist. “Tell me, why are you here?”

José’s brow wrinkled as he twisted to look at me. “What do you mean? You aren’t happy to see me?”

“I thought you were doing important work in Milan. I wasn’t expecting you to come here.”

José lay back down. “Milan doesn’t want me.”

“What do you mean it doesn’t want you? Why?” I sat up so I could look at him. “José, what happened?”

José looked away from me, pulling his hand through his hair. “The provincial government decided that they didn’t want my help. They say my style of warfare is barbaric and unbecoming of how an Italian should conduct himself. They feel they can do a better job of keeping Austria at bay without me.”