Chapter 16: The Old Don's Heart

I went straight to the old man's room from the yacht club, still in the green dress.

The housekeeper let me in without a word.

Don Brancato was sitting up this time, with the lamp on and a tank of oxygen beside the bed.

"Fiora told you," he said.

"In front of thirty women."

"Then it's done." He almost laughed.

"I wanted to tell you in my own time. She has always been quicker than I gave her credit for."

"How long?"

"The doctor says weeks. I say less."

He touched his chest.

I sat on the chair beside him, which I had never once done in fourteen years.

"You said you would tell me about my father," I said.

"I did."

He pointed at the drawer of the nightstand.

I opened it, and there was a gray folder inside, soft at the corners with age.

"Open it."

The first page was a stamped inspection report from the state, dated the week my father died.

Under it, in pencil, was a page in my father's handwriting, and I knew the square capitals the moment I saw them.

I read it once.

Then I read it again, because my hands had started to shake.

He had gone out to inspect the anchor bolts at the Hudson crossing the night before the official inspection, alone, with a flashlight.

Four of the bolts had been cut halfway through and the cuts filled with grease.

Not failed.

Cut.

He had written: Somebody wants the scaffold to go with a man on it. Don't be the man.

Under that, in a different pencil, he had written: Told Ignazio. He says stay off the scaffold tomorrow. Will do.

The last line said: Will tell Silvia about the bolts when I'm home.

"He didn't come home," I said.

"He did go on the scaffold." The old man's voice was ragged.

"A man from Delmonte's crew came to the house at dawn. He said the inspection had been moved up and the state was waiting."

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