‘Mama—if his eggs were any saltier they’d taste like clams!’ Lena cried.
‘He likes them salted,’ Lisa said defensively.
‘Salted, not preserved,’ her daughter laughed.
‘Thank you. My eggs are cooked to perfection,’ Rico assured his new mother-in-law. Lisa smiled at him then turned to Lena.
‘See, he likes them.’
Contessa smiled, amused by the exchange. She lifted the spoon to feed some more egg to Martino and in doing so glanced over his shoulder. There, in the kitchen doorway, she spied a strange figure—a young, wiry man with a dark, rough beard and unblinking eyes. He was clothed in black and held a rifle at his side. His entrance had been stealthy—his sudden appearance and the shocking sight of him brought a scream to her lips.
Everyone turned in the direction of her sight.
‘It’s o
