Chapter 23: The Strozzi Chair

On Monday the Table sat again, with one chair empty on the Cardello side and snow melting on the windows.

Vincent stood behind the low chair, because he had no seat and no vote.

I sat in it.

"The Strozzi house holds a vote at this Table," the old boss said.

"It is under censure, and it cannot use that vote."

"I'm the wife," I said.

"You hold the wife's chair, and you used its vote.

"It cannot hold the house."

"Who can?"

"Anyone the Table names, if three of five agree."

The man from the Bronx cleared his throat.

"I'll say what the others are thinking," he said.

"A woman sat in that low chair and took apart a man who has been at this Table longer than any of us.

"I've seen men with thirty years in the business do worse."

"She read a clause," the boss who owed money said.

He sounded rueful rather than angry.

"I still haven't stopped thinking about it."

"I name Antonia Strozzi to the Strozzi seat," said the man who had hated my uncle for ten years.

"Seconded," said the man from the Bronx.

The old boss looked at me over the top of his glasses.

"Mrs. Strozzi, you would hold the seat for the house."

"For the year of my husband's censure."

"And after?"

"After, we'll see who has earned it."

Behind me, nobody breathed.

"I'll vote with the Bronx," said the boss who owed money. "Put me down."

"Three," said the old boss.

He stood, and the others did, one by one, until Vincent and I were the only two left looking at each other.

"The Table names the Strozzi house a woman," the old boss said. "Take the chair."

I got up.

The Strozzi chair was black leather, higher in the back than the others and worn on the arms.

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