The Vesuvius Isotope (The Katrina Stone Novels) by Kristen Elise Ph.D.

taxi?”
    I guessed him to be about my daughter’s age. A baseball cap perched backward on his forehead revealed a kind face lacking the eventual roadmap of experience. His sleeveless shirt exposed arms that looked much less naïve; both were completely covered to the wrists in tattoos.
    “Thank you again,” I said. “But, no, I’m fine now. Thank you so much, really.”
    “Why are you alone?” he asked.
    “Uh, what?”
    “Why are you alone?” he repeated matter-of-factly. “You’re a very beautiful woman, sitting and crying in a Naples café by yourself. I don’t get it. Have you just been dumped or something? Because, if so, I think it was—how do you say?—his lost!”
    “Are you serious?”
    He laughed. “ Normale! Of course I’m serious!”
    “For one thing,” I said indignantly, “my last shower was days ago, in San Diego. For another, I’m old enough to be your mother. And for a third, if I were your mother, I would kick your ass to kingdom come for sitting down uninvited and hitting on a stranger old enough to be your mother! Excuse me!”
    I stood to leave and reached for my purse, and the boy’s eyes fell upon my large diamond engagement ring and wedding band.
    “I’m sorry,” he said, the cockiness gone. “I did not mean to offend you. I was not trying to be rude. You seemed lonely and very sad, and I was hoping I could make you smile. I see you are married.” He gestured toward my rings. “I think you are married to that American on TV, Donald Trump. Please, sit down. I will wait with you until your husband returns.”
    I paused, still standing, and I felt myself smirk. “Thanks. But I really do have to go.”
    He reached across the table. At first I thought he was reaching for my purse, and I started. But his hand fell gently onto my arm. “Listen, signora , I don’t mean to scare you. But Naples is not a good city for a foreigner, especially a woman foreigner, to be alone. Naples has crime. Naples has camorra .”
    “What is camorra ?”
    “Like in the movies, the criminals.”
    “Mafia?”
    “Yes. So, please. When you are out, stay with your husband.”
    “I’m on my way to meet him now, so don’t worry.”
    “Can I walk with you? I’d feel better. I’m sure he won’t mind. I don’t think you are old enough to be my mother, but if you say so…” He smiled.
    Charming. Lexi would drool.
    “And how do I know that you are not the Godfather himself?” I asked, and he cracked up.
    “If I was camorra ,” he said, “I could afford a car. I would not offer to walk with you. I would offer you a ride.”
    I thanked the young man profusely for his concern and assured him with some degree of condescension that I would not be requiring any help.
    I was so, so wrong.
     

    I gathered my belongings and wiped my eyes one more time with my napkin before heading away from the restaurant. As I approached the bridge leading off the island, I looked behind me. The boy was ten feet away. I scowled.
    “I’m not following you, signora ,” he said. “There is only one bridge.”
    He had a point. But that bridge led almost directly to my hotel, and I could not return to it as long as he was still behind me. So instead of going to rest in my room, I decided to drop in on Alyssa Iacovani again, when she was no longer expecting me.
    Well aware that my stomach was now very full, I quickly decided that another cab ride like the one I had taken earlier was not on the agenda. I turned around to face the anonymous boy once again. “Excuse me,” I said. “Can you tell me where there is a bus stop and how to get a ticket?”
    “ Prego ,” he said and led me into a convenience store.
    A moment later, armed with my bus ticket, I approached the stop and stood next to a dozen or so locals. And so did he. I glared at him.
    “If you don’t want me to stand here,” he said, “I can wait for you to leave and then catch the next bus.”
    “Thanks,” I said, laughing a little. “I don’t