Chapter 9: His Mother

"Just the three of us," I repeated. "That sounds perfect."

"She's going to love you, babe."

"I'll bring dessert."

Across the table, Pina mouthed a word I'd never heard her say before.

"Bring the cannoli from Court Street," Raffaele said. "She likes those."

He hung up.

Nonna looked at me over her glasses.

"You'll eat at that woman's table?"

"I'll eat at any table I have to."

"Good." She nodded once. "Wear the earrings your mother wore to mine."

On Tuesday afternoon, thirty cases of fake Ferri left Ponte's loading dock on a truck.

Tommaso stood at the office window and watched them go with his arms crossed.

He'd photographed every case the night before.

"Let them drive," he said in Italian, without turning around. "Three more days."

At seven o'clock I climbed the stairs of a brick building in Astoria.

I had a box of cannoli and my mother's small gold hoops in my ears.

Raffaele opened the door in an apron.

He'd never once worn an apron for me.

"Babe! Come in, come in."

His apartment smelled like garlic and lemon furniture polish.

Every surface had been cleaned for his mother.

The photo of us from Coney Island was in a new frame on the bookshelf.

I'd never seen it framed before.

His mother stood up from the couch.

She was small and straight-backed, in a black dress and pearls, with her son's green eyes and none of his warmth.

Fifty-eight, Raffaele had told me once. She'd been fifty-eight since birth.

She kissed the air beside both my cheeks.

"Piacere," she said, then in slow, careful English, "Very nice to meet you."

"It's so nice to meet you too," I said. "Raffaele talks about you all the time."

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