Chapter 20: The Coronation Dinner

The restaurant on Arthur Avenue had been dressed for a coronation.

White roses ran down the long table.

Candles burned in silver stands.

A framed photograph of the old Don stood at the head of the room, with a black ribbon across the corner.

Nino sat in the chair under it.

Rosalia sat at his right, in black silk and pearls, with a cup of tea at her elbow.

Down both sides of the table sat the eleven capos and their wives.

It was the room where I had signed a Ferrante folder, not two months before.

I came in through the front door with Roisin on my arm.

Dominic walked a pace behind me.

Behind him came my father in his best black suit, with six men from Local 1814.

They stopped just inside the door and crossed their arms.

The room went quiet in a long wave from the door to the head of the table.

"Fiona, cara," Rosalia said. "And Roisin. How good of you both to come."

She said it warmly, to the whole room.

"Sit. There are two places by the kitchen."

I put the black ledger down in the middle of the table, between the roses and the bread.

Then I set the green teapot beside it, still in its plastic bag.

The hospital's red evidence tape ran across the top.

And the cream-ribboned tin.

"I'll stand," I said.

"This is a family dinner," Nino said. "Take your sister and go."

"You asked me to bring the nice book."

Rosalia smiled.

"It was a joke."

"Then we'll all enjoy it," I said. "Mrs. Brancato, will you pour a cup from that pot for the table?"

Nobody breathed.

"Or from the tin," I said. "Whichever you like. Drink it yourself, here, now."

I waited.

"If it's only tea, I'll sit by the kitchen all night."

"Fiona."

"I asked you once at the hospital. The wives were there."

The older wife, who had stood in that corridor, lifted her chin.

"She did," she said. "And you did not."

Rosalia put her cup down very precisely in its saucer.

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