Chapter 24: The Light Is on Me

The night before the portrait dinner, nobody phoned from California.

I sat on the edge of our bed in Newark with my hair down, and the phone stayed dark on the nightstand.

Domenico came in from the hall and sat beside me.

"You keep looking at it," he said.

"Five years of habit," I said.

"Do you want to call someone?"

I thought about it honestly.

"No," I said. "I want you to ask me the thing he used to ask."

He took my hand.

"What's the count, Cara?"

"Zero," I said. "Nobody's sitting in a chair that isn't hers."

He smiled against my knuckles, and I slept better than I had in years.

The Greco family portrait that year was taken in the morning, in the long dining room.

The blinds were raised, and the winter light lay flat across the white cloth.

The photographer was the same man as before.

He stood behind his tripod with his tie loose and spoke to me very carefully.

"Mrs. Greco," he said. "Where would you like everyone?"

I looked at the room.

Twelve captains stood along the long wall in dark suits.

The Brooklyn captain was in the front row beside the gray-haired one, clean-shaven and trying not to be noticed.

The three allied families had sent their men again, and the white-mustached one nodded to me across the room.

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