Chapter 7: Gianni's

My father's trattoria had been shut for fifteen years.

Gianni's sat on a corner in South Philly with its green awning faded to grey and its windows papered over from the inside.

Carlo had kept the lease paid and never let anyone open it.

"A man's name shouldn't be cooked on by strangers," he'd told me when I was thirteen.

I had believed him.

That night, after the funeral, Santino parked in the alley behind it with the lights off.

"Tell me where," he said.

"Walk-in cooler. Under the bottom shelf on the left, there's a tile that comes up."

He looked at me.

"Carlo asked about the books," I said. "Fine. He can have them in my hands, not in his."

I took the chain from around my neck.

Hanging beside my father's St. Christopher medal was a small brass key.

I'd worn it since I was twelve and never told anyone what it opened.

The back door stuck, then gave.

Inside, the kitchen smelled like dust and old oregano.

Chairs were stacked on tables out in the dining room.

Under a sheet, I could see the long bar where my father used to pour coffee for the dockworkers before sunrise.

I walked past it without turning my head.

The walk-in cooler had been turned off for years.

I knelt on the cold floor, found the tile, and worked my fingers under the edge.

Santino stood behind me with his gun drawn, watching the doorway.

The tile lifted.

Under it lay a flat green cloth book wrapped in a plastic bag.

Next to it sat a stack of accordion folders held with rubber bands.

My father's handwriting covered the first third.

The rest was mine.

I'd kept the habit he taught me: one set of books for the world, one set for the truth.

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