Chapter 15: His Brother's Blood

Ettore Montanari heard it at ten past noon, from his driver, standing in the study door with his cap in both hands.

"The boy called him Papa, boss. In the bakery, in front of the whole line."

"Who was in the line?"

"The tailor's wife. The pharmacist and his wife. Three more I know by sight."

"Then the parish has it."

"The parish had it by eleven."

Ettore nodded, and the driver went out, and the house became very quiet.

He had not slept.

He sat with both hands flat on the desk, and he looked at them.

He had always thought of his hands as steady.

Zia Concetta came in without knocking at one.

She carried a tray with a bowl of soup on it, and she set it down in front of him.

"Eat."

"Not now."

"You will eat, or I will sit here and watch you."

He ate three spoonfuls.

She lowered herself into the leather chair by the fire and took out her rosary.

"You didn't ask me if it was true," she said.

"I don't need to ask."

"No. You know it as well as I do."

"You saw that chin when the child was a week old, and you looked at the floor."

He put the spoon down.

"You knew," he said.

"Since the christening."

"And you said nothing for six years."

"Your brother asked me to."

The room tilted, very slightly.

"Which brother?"

"The only one who ever asked me for anything."

She turned a bead.

"He knew, Ettore. He had known since before the child was born."

Ettore's voice came out hoarse.

"How?"

"His wife told him herself, the week she was sure."

"He sat in my kitchen that night with his head in his hands."

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