Chapter 9: Papou's Table

The house on Seventy-First Street had a doorman in white gloves and a marble staircase.

Lena climbed it in a dark green dress with Cassandra's arm through hers.

"Chin up," Cassandra murmured. "You look like a woman who owns the building."

"I look like a woman who is going to be sick."

"Same thing. Smile."

Two men at the dining room doors saw the invitation card in Lena's hand and stepped aside without a word.

The room beyond was long and warm and full of candles.

Forty people sat at one table under a chandelier, men in dark suits and women in gold, and the talk stopped as Lena crossed the threshold.

At the far end, in a high-backed chair, sat an old man with white hair and a grey three-piece suit.

A silver-headed cane leaned against his knee.

Stavros Karras did not stand.

He looked at Lena for a long time, and then he smiled with all his teeth.

"You came," he said. "I wasn't sure."

"You asked."

"I did. Please. Sit by my grandson."

Damian stood up so fast his chair scraped.

He was in black, with his injured arm bandaged under the sleeve, and his face had gone white.

"Lena, no."

"There's a place," Stavros said gently. "Between my grandson and the lovely Miss Pappas. I had them set it myself."

It was a trap, and she knew it.

Cassandra squeezed her arm once and let go.

Lena walked the length of the table with forty pairs of eyes on her back.

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