The Don's Pregnant Wife Ran to His Enemy novel · Chapter 16 of 24
Chapter 16: The Memorial Dinner
The Pagano family had eaten in the same restaurant on Taylor Street for twenty-six years, and that was where Sandro held his father's memorial dinner.
I walked in alone at eight on Saturday night.
Raf had not liked it.
He had said so for two days, in the kitchen, in the car, and in the dark with his mouth against my shoulder.
I had said the same thing back each time.
"Teresa is in the car with a man who does not need her alive. I go in the front door, and I go in by myself."
The room was long and gold and full.
Sixty men sat at white tables, in black suits, under a photograph of Sandro's father draped with a ribbon.
At the head table sat my husband, in the charcoal suit, with a cut on his lip from the stairs and a calm smile.
Four soldiers stood behind his chair.
The room went silent as I came down the aisle.
"Amore," Sandro said. "You came."
"I said I would."
"Where is the tape?"
I held up my bag.
"Here."
"Give it to me."
I did not move.
"Sandro," I said, "your father deserves a toast first."
A murmur went through the tables.
Sandro's eyes narrowed.
I turned to face the room, with my back to my husband for the first time in three years.
"Gentlemen. Many of you knew my father. Pietro Rinaldi sat at this table every year of my life, until three years ago, when he died at a red light on Halsted."
No one spoke.
"I would like him to say a few words."
In the corner of the room, a thin man in a waiter's jacket bent over the sound system.
He was the captain who had asked Raf which night he should be sick.
He lifted his hand.
The speakers crackled, and my father's voice filled the restaurant.
"Elena. I am going to tell you who is going to kill me."
Sandro was on his feet.
"Turn it off."
Nobody did.
Pietro's voice went on, slow and tired, through the room he had eaten in for thirty years.
It named the church lot at Joliet.
It named the docks, and the leash, and the cousin.
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