Chapter 16: One Slip

Livia's POV

The note said he'd call tonight.

He didn't call.

By midnight I had checked my phone nine times and walked to the end of the garage stairs twice.

At two in the morning my phone lit up with a message from Bianca.

Your father's phone, she wrote. Falcone is in the cellar of the social club until after Sunday's table. The doorman has the key.

I stared at it.

I'm not helping you, she wrote. I'm paying a debt.

I booked the first flight east with my own card.

The social club sat between a bakery and a shuttered shoe store on Ferry Street.

On Sundays the street out front was lined with black cars and nobody parked in front of the bakery.

The doorman knew me.

"Miss Marchetti," he said, and his face went through three expressions. "You can't go in."

"I'm my father's daughter," I said. "Which one of us do you want to explain that to?"

He opened the door.

The long room smelled of coffee and cigars and veal.

At the head of the table sat the boss, an old man in a gray cardigan, cutting his meat with a small knife.

Twelve capos sat along both sides.

My father was at the boss's left hand. He saw me and put down his fork.

I walked down the length of the room with the steel box held against my chest.

Every fork stopped.

I set the box in front of the boss, between the bread and the wine, and opened the lid.

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