Chapter 7: Sunday Dinner

The Brancato house in Dyker Heights had been built to make guests feel small.

Marble floors, gold mirrors, a hall with a ceiling so high the voices went up into it and didn't come back.

Dominic held my coat for me at the door.

A maid took it, and he leaned in close.

"Eat the bread," he said. "Eat from the same plate as the others. Don't touch anything that comes out of the kitchen on its own tray."

"I know."

"I know you know. I'm saying it anyway."

I squeezed his hand once, and we walked in.

The dining room held thirty people at a table long enough to land a plane on.

The old Don sat at the head in a high-backed chair with his cane hooked on the arm, white-haired and hawk-faced, with eyes like two wet stones.

Roisin sat at his right in a pale blue dress with a diamond at her throat.

Nino sat beside her. Rosalia sat across.

There were four seats at the foot of the table, after the capos' wives and the cousins and a priest.

Mine was the last one.

A card in gold script said Signora Ferrante.

"Fiona," Nino called down the table, bright and friendly. "We saved you a seat close to the kitchen. I thought you'd want to be near the help."

A few people laughed.

I sat, and Dominic sat beside me.

"I love it," I said. "From here I can see everyone's hands."

The laughing stopped.

The old Don's wet stone eyes moved to me, and stayed.

The meal went on, one course at a time.

I ate what the others ate, from the same bowls. I watched the man across from me lift a fork before I lifted mine.

Rosalia fussed over Roisin, filling her plate and her glass and tucking a napkin into her lap.

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