Chapter 4: Sunday Dinner

The housekeeper opened the front door and her face went white.

She had been there when I was Donna.

She had held my second son's hand on his first day of school, and now she held the door for me with a shaking hand.

"Signora," she whispered.

"It's good to see you," I said. "You've gone gray."

"So have you."

That made her laugh, once, and then she covered her mouth.

Ruggero had driven me to the gate and stopped the car.

"Family only," he'd said. "I'll be at the curb."

Now I walked alone down the front hall of the house where I had raised four boys, and every portrait on the wall was in the same place, except one.

My own was gone.

The dining room had the long table, set for twenty-four.

I knew the seating without being told.

Cesare sat at the head, with Bianca on his right in cream silk, wearing the crown.

Their father's chair, at the other end, was empty.

Mine was beside it.

Capos and their wives lined both sides of the table, and the room went quiet in a way that told me they had been talking about me.

"Adriana," Bianca said, and rose to kiss my cheek. "You came. I was afraid you wouldn't."

"I was invited."

"Sit, sit. Cesare, the wine."

Dinner began.

I ate what was put in front of me and answered what was asked.

A capo's wife asked how Lisbon was, and I said wet.

Someone laughed, and the sound eased the room a little.

Halfway through the second course, Bianca set down her fork.

"Cesare, I wonder if it's time."

My eldest nodded at the second son, who stood at the sideboard.

He carried the black duffel to the table and set it in front of Bianca's driver, a thick man with a scar through one eyebrow.