“Ada! What the hell are you doing?!”
The radio exploded. Dispatchers laughed. Drivers honked in the distance. Ciro came running down the stairs, half-shaved, white foam on his chin.
“Casoria,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “And drive slowly. I want him to watch the taillights.” XXX Napoli Ada Da Casoria Moglie Di Un Noto Tassista Di
He blinked. “What story?”
She didn’t start the engine. Instead, she reached into the glovebox. No GPS. Just a folded receipt. Ristorante Il Segreto, Vomero – 2 glasses of Franciacorta, 1 lobster risotto. Dated last Thursday. The night he’d told her he was “stuck at the airport because of a strike.” “Ada
Tonight, Ada wasn’t laughing. She nursed a sfogliatella , letting the ricotta chill her tongue while her fury burned hot. Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: “The GPS data is in the glovebox. He lied about the airport run. He was at the Vomero villa. Again.”
“I’m going back to Casoria, Ciro. To my mother’s house. You can keep the taxi. I’m taking the story.” Drivers honked in the distance
She smiled. It was a terrible, beautiful smile. Ciro’s taxi, a gleaming white Mercedes with the license plate TAXI-NA-777 , sat idling in their driveway. He was inside, preening in the bathroom mirror. Ada slipped into the driver’s seat. The leather still held the faint scent of that other woman’s perfume—a floral, cheap thing from the Vomero profumeria.