Chapter 11: The Charter

The Corsetti Social Club had a green awning, a brass door and a back room with a long oak table.

I had been in that room once as a child, under the table, eating a cannoli.

I walked in on Rocco's right arm at nine o'clock the next night, in the black dress Zia Ines had pressed.

He wore a dark suit, and his left arm was strapped tight under the jacket.

He had refused the sling and refused to sit in the car.

"Stand straight," he said under his breath. "Don't look at the door."

"Why not?"

"Because Silvio wants you to."

The family heads sat at the table, gray-haired and heavy in their chairs.

They looked at me as I came in. None of them stood.

Silvio sat at the head, in the chair that had been my father's.

He wore his camel coat over his shoulders, and the gold ring on his little finger caught the lamp.

"Niece," he said warmly. "Welcome home."

"Uncle."

"You've had a hard week. We heard about the cemetery. Terrible. Terrible. I have sent my condolences to the groundskeeper's family."

Rocco's hand went rigid on my arm.

"There's a chair for you." Silvio pointed. "At the foot."

It was a small wooden chair beside the kitchen door.

I didn't move.

"I'll stand."

"As you like."

In the far corner a man sat on a folding stool with a split lip and a swollen eye.

His hands were free. His navy coat was torn at the shoulder.

He looked up and saw me.

"Thurston," I said.

"Livia." His voice was a croak. "I didn't know. I swear to God."

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