“The man who mocks his wife on the radio for laughs… is the same man who cried when I pulled the burnt sughetto off the stove last Easter. The same man who sleeps with a stuffed donkey named Gennaro. And the same man who just spent €120 on another woman’s lobster, while telling me the taxi meter was broken.”
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.
It was just after midnight when the neon sign of the Bar Tiffany buzzed and flickered, casting a sickly green glow on the cobblestones of Via Roma. In the back corner, away from the espresso machine’s hiss, sat XXX Napoli Ada Da Casoria. To the regulars, she was just “Ada,” the wife of a famous taxi driver. But tonight, her eyes held a storm.
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.” XXX Napoli Ada Da Casoria Moglie Di Un Noto Tassista Di
She turned at the gate. “The one where the punchline isn’t me anymore. From now on, you are the funny one, tassì . Enjoy the radio tomorrow. They’ll be calling you ‘Ciro Due Corna.’” ( Ciro Two Horns – a heavy Neapolitan insult for a cuckold).
“Ciro, amore mio,” she said, her voice honeyed and clear. “To all the dispatchers and drivers on this channel: my husband, the famous tassista , is currently upstairs using my grandmother’s rose-scented shaving cream. He will be late for his 1 AM shift because I have hidden his car keys. Not in revenge—but because I want you all to know.”
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.” “The man who mocks his wife on the
“For what you’re about to do.”
And somewhere between Naples and Casoria, XXX Napoli Ada smiled. The wife of a famous taxi driver had just stolen the whole show.
Behind her, the famous taxi driver stood alone in his driveway, the smell of rose shaving cream and his own foolishness filling the night. For the first time in his life, Ciro “Il Freccia” Esposito had nothing to say. The radio squawked. A dispatcher’s voice cut through: “Ciro, my friend… your wife drives a harder bargain than you ever drove a taxi.” It was a terrible, beautiful smile
The “noto tassista” (famous taxi driver) was her husband, Ciro “Il Freccia” Esposito. Ciro wasn’t famous for his driving. He was famous for his mouth. On a local radio show every Thursday, he’d rant about traffic, tourists, and his wife’s “terrible Neapolitan ragù.” He’d made Ada a punchline. “Ada da Casoria,” he’d laugh into the mic, “she thinks she’s a duchessa, but she can’t even parallel park a Smart car!”
She stood up, leaving a €5 note under the plate. The barman, old Gegè, nodded. “Signora Ada. My condolences.”
She didn’t need the GPS. She already knew. Ciro’s “late-night airport transfers” had become too frequent, his cologne too sweet, his tips too light. For ten years, she’d been the silent anchor—washing the taxi seat covers, packing his panino with prosciutto, ignoring the radio jabs. But Ada da Casoria was not a fool. Casoria bred a different kind of patience: the slow, volcanic kind.
He blinked. “What story?”
“I’m going back to Casoria, Ciro. To my mother’s house. You can keep the taxi. I’m taking the story.”