Chapter 7: The Elders' Dinner

The dinner was held on the Friday after my funeral, at the long table in the Carrano dining room.

I knew exactly where every chair stood, because I had set that table for six years.

Dario had told me the plan in the car.

"Nobody looks at the people who carry the plates," he said. "You would know."

So I wore a black server's uniform and a white cap, with my hair pinned flat under it.

My own face passed through the kitchen door twenty times that night, and no one saw it.

The housekeeper looked at me once.

She went white, said nothing and handed me a tray.

Dario sat at the table as a guest.

He had walked in at eight with his grey coat over his arm, and the room had gone quiet.

Aldo rose halfway from his seat at the head, and sat down again.

"Dario," he said.

"Father."

"You came."

"You sent for me. You have never done that before."

"Sit," Aldo said, and his voice cracked on it.

Vincent Torrisi did not rise.

He was a silver-haired man with a heavy jaw and a smile that never reached his eyes.

He lifted his wine glass an inch off the cloth.

"The prodigal son," he said. "How good of you to join us. We're all still in mourning, you know."

"I know," Dario said. "I was at the funeral."

"Were you? I didn't see you."

"I'm a quiet man."

He sat down next to his father, and he did not look toward the kitchen door.

I carried in the soup.

I set a bowl before each of the lieutenants, men who had once said good morning to me by name.

They stared past me.

Stefano sat at the far end, beside his empty bride's chair.

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