Chapter 8: The Sit-Down

Tullio didn't wait for Sunday to tell people.

By Wednesday, every boss between Philadelphia and Richmond had heard the Mazzola girl was Dario Venturi's.

By Thursday, a black car sat outside the bank from opening to close.

By Friday, the roses came back, three dozen this time, with a card in Tullio's handwriting.

For my future daughter.

My mother gave them to the funeral home on Albemarle Street.

Dario didn't call.

I didn't call him either.

On Sunday afternoon, the night guard stood at the bank's back door with a wicker laundry basket.

Every boss who came in put a gun in it.

Some put in two.

The Philadelphia boss put in a pistol and a pocketknife and a roll of antacids, and the guard handed the antacids back.

There were nine of them.

Old men in good coats, and one woman from Richmond in pearls who had run her Family since her husband died.

They sat around the long table in the back room where my great-grandmother had written the Accord.

My father sat at the head in his wheelchair, in his good gray suit.

My mother stood behind him with one hand on his shoulder.

The Ledger lay closed in front of his empty hands.

I stood at his right side, where the heir stands.

Tullio sat halfway down the table with Chiara behind his chair, holding his coat.

Dario sat beside his father.

He didn't look at me once.

The Richmond boss tapped her ring on the table.

"We're here to swear in the heir," she said. "Does anyone object?"

Tullio stood up.

He did it slowly.

"I love this girl like a daughter," he said. "I held her at her christening. So it breaks my heart to say it."

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