“Don’t worry about it,” Stone said. “I think I scared him off with talk of the cops and the feds. I think he probably feels that he’s out of his depth.”

Dolce put some water on to boil and began chopping garlic. “Johnny has always been out of his depth,” she said, “on this side of the East River. He’s a Brooklyn boy, and he should never leave.”

“He is handsome,” Stone said. “I can see how your ad might have been turned at nineteen.”

“Trouble is, Johnny is still nineteen.” She began chopping prosciutto. “He does crazy things, then wants to be forgiven. He’s kind of a split personality—one moment, a sweet little boy, the next, a screaming maniac.”

“How long did you actually live with him?”

“Less than a month. On our last day together, I hit him in the head with a cast-iron skillet and left him on the kitchen floor for dead. He had a harder head than I thought.”

“Remind me never to make you angry,” Stone said.

Dolce looked at him sweetly. “Never make me angry,” she said. “Consider yourself reminded.”

Stone opened a bottle of white wine and poured himself a glass, sniffing it first.

“Can I try it?” she asked.

He handed her the glass.

She swirled it, sniffed it, tasted it. “It’s lovely; is it Italian?”

“It’s a Mondavi Reserve Chardonnay ’94. Not everything good is Italian.”

“Mondavi is an Italian name,” she said smugly. “By the way, speaking of Italians, Papa would like you to come to dinner in Brooklyn tomorrow night.”

“I’d love to. Who else is coming?”

“Mary Ann will be there; I’m not sure about Dino. Pick me up at the house at six?”

“Sure.”

“What is this grand-jury thing tomorrow? What are you testifying to?”

“I’m testifying that I didn’t murder a young woman.”

“Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, good.”

They dined on fettucini with a sauce of prosciutto, peas, and cream. Stone liked her cooking, and he was liking her more and more. There were times when she seemed steely hard, but here, in his kitchen, she was soft and funny and lovely. And God, could she cook!

“Would you like some of Aunt Rosaria’s cheesecake?” she asked when they were finished with their pasta.

“Yes, if you could call for an ambulance first,” Stone replied. “What with the pasta sauce and the dessert, I might as well just take the cholesterol straight into a vein.”

After dinner he led her upstairs. She gave the bedroom the same inspection she had given the living room. “It’s very masculine,” she said.

“A person of the masculine persuasion lives here,” Stone reminded her.

“I am aware of that,” she said, unbuckling his belt and letting his trousers drop to the floor.

“I don’t appear to be wearing any pants,” he said.