Chapter 9Ruth sat, laser focused on the front windows of La Bussola, her heart hammering away in her chest. The nice young waiter—one of Angelo’s sons—had seated her at the same table as the other day, only this time Ruth had taken the opposite seat, the one facing the door. She brushed some imaginary lint from the skirt of her navy blue dress and clasped her hands in her lap to keep them from trembling.
Truth was, Ruth had been wobbly from the moment she’d heard Samuel’s voice on the other end of the telephone line the evening before. What could she say? After two and a half straight days of work, not nearly enough food, and far too little sleep, he’d caught her in a weak moment. And just as she was starting to get her footing again—had actually gone twelve hours without him playing the
