Chapter 7: Who Told You to Come Home

I got up off the bench.

I walked across the wet grass until there was only the gate between us.

Up close he smelled like whisky and cigarettes and the cologne I'd bought him for our first anniversary.

He still wore it.

"Say that again," I said.

Gaetano wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist.

"She came into the club in February. Three years ago. You were in Milan for that shipping case."

"I remember where I was."

"She sat at the bar every night for a week. Graziella. Your Graziella. She said she was lonely. She said you never called her anymore."

"I called her every Sunday."

"I know that now."

He leaned his forehead on the bars.

"I'm not saying I'm a good man, Rosaria. I was drunk most of that month."

"I liked that she looked at me like I was somebody. I'm not saying I didn't want it."

"Then what are you saying?"

"A year after the divorce, she was in my bed again."

I didn't let my face move.

"She was drunk. She was laughing at me. She said, you think you were my idea?"

"Your little brother pays my rent, Gaetano. He's paid it since the week before your birthday."

The guard had gone back to his booth.

He had a phone to his ear.

"I didn't believe her," Gaetano said. "So I went through her bag while she was asleep."

"There was a bank slip. Monthly transfers. From one of Saverio's companies, the car import one."

"That doesn't mean anything."

"It meant enough that he took Palermo off me two months later."

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