Chapter 12: The Sarto Feast

"Tell me everything," I said into the phone, "and tell it fast."

Orazio was awake beside me by then, one hand on my shoulder and his head tilted close to hear.

"He keeps the director in the basement behind the wine racks," Fabrizia whispered.

"Last night he put a glass of water in the man's hand and asked him a question, and the man answered it."

"Then Ettore sat on our bed and told me what he'd learned."

"What did he learn?"

"That my baby began in a freezer, in your name."

She swallowed.

"Tabby, I thought it was a gift from God. I've been talking to her for three weeks."

"Fabrizia."

"I'm not angry at you." Her voice broke.

"I'm angry at him. He wasn't even sad when he told me."

"He said, 'Good. Now the King can't touch us.' Like I was a shield."

Down the hall, a door opened.

"I have to go," she said. "He's holding a feast on Sunday. He wants you there. Please come, and look at my sleeve."

The line went dead.

The Sarto feast filled a banquet hall at the back of the Elmwood Park house, with eighty guests, white tablecloths and a violinist.

Four of the five bosses sat at the high table.

I saw the gray man in the cardigan, and the one in the green tie, who winked at me.

Ettore stood on a little raised platform with a glass in his hand and his wife pinned to his side.

Fabrizia wore a long blue dress with sleeves to her wrists.

She was holding her left arm very straight.

"Dear friends," Ettore said, and the hall hushed. "I thank you for celebrating with my family."

"For twelve years, my wife and I prayed."

"Today I can tell you, before the table and before God, that the Sarto line will have its blood heir."

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