Chapter 15: What Fiora Knew

Ettore opened the door with the pistol held low at his thigh.

Fiora stood on the landing alone, in a plain gray coat with the collar turned up.

She had no makeup on, and no cream silk, and her eyes were swollen.

"I took the subway," she said. "I wasn't followed. I looked."

"Come in," I said.

Ettore didn't move.

"Gianna."

"She's four months along and she's cold. Let her in."

He stepped aside, and kept his hand on the door.

Fiora sat on the edge of the chair.

She looked at the blanket on the floor, and the coffee cups, and me in Ettore's shirt.

"I'm sorry to come at night," she said.

"You're not sorry about the night."

She flinched.

"No," she said. "I'm not."

She opened her purse and took out two things.

The first was a stiff white card with a gold edge.

It was the seating card from the banquet, with my name written on it in a secretary's neat hand.

Orsini, guest.

On the back, in a heavier pen, someone had written: Table nine, not beside C. The cake goes to the Greco girl. A. F.

"A. F.," I said.

"Aurelio Falcone. His secretary gave me this at the hotel and told me to tear it up. I kept it."

She swallowed.

"I knew it was your birthday, Gianna. I told you I'd reminded Cesare, and that part was true.

"I also knew exactly what I was there to do."

"You fed him my cake."

"I fed him your cake."

"With a fork."

"With a fork." Her mouth shook. "It was lemon. I hate lemon. I ate it anyway and smiled."

Nobody said anything for a moment.

I wanted to laugh, and I wanted to throw something at her head, and I did neither.

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