Chapter 9: The Green Coat

We were at the shelter by nine, because my father wanted me to see how generous he was.

He had said so at breakfast, with his eyes on his plate and a photograph beside his fork that nobody mentioned.

"Go see your people," he'd said. "Take Rocco. Be home for the afternoon."

Mom hadn't come down.

Fiora hadn't, either.

The shelter was a tired brick building on a Kensington side street with a red door.

Before I'd even reached the steps, the door flew open and eleven kids spilled out around my legs.

"Nerina!"

"She's back!"

"Nerina, did the mafia hurt you?"

A seven-year-old boy with a missing front tooth stopped dead in front of Rocco and tilted his head back to look all the way up.

"Who's the suit?"

"That's Rocco," I said. "He's my fiance."

"Is he your bodyguard?"

"Sort of."

"Does he have a gun?"

"Don't answer that," I said to Rocco.

He crouched down on the sidewalk in his expensive trousers.

"Left boot," he whispered.

The boy gasped and ran inside to tell everyone.

I stared at Rocco.

"You can't tell children where you keep your gun."

"I told one child."

"You told a seven-year-old."

"He asked politely."

The night nurse met us in the lobby, still in her coat, her eyes red from no sleep.

She hugged me hard.

Then she took my hand and led us down a narrow stair to the basement.

It was cold down there and smelled of paper and old laundry.

A row of grey filing cabinets lined one wall, and on a shelf above them sat a stack of cardboard boxes marked UNCLAIMED.

"She wanted your file," the nurse said. "I told her it was locked. She didn't ask about the boxes."

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