Chapter 18: The Doors

At eight on Monday morning the driver was waiting at the bakery door.

"Signora, the Don's orders. You stay in the flat until it's finished."

"Until what is finished?"

"The vote."

"He told you about the vote."

"The consigliere told him on Saturday. The Don said he'd sit through it, and he'd bring the proof, and you were not to be moved."

"Not to be moved."

"He said you'd say no."

"Then he knows me."

Nella stood behind me with the cloth book in a shopping bag and the crate lid wrapped in newspaper.

The baker's wife had pressed my ruined green dress in the night and sewn the torn hem with black thread.

She had said that a dead woman should be buried in something nice.

I wore it now, with my hair pinned, and my wedding ring back on my finger.

He had carried it from the helicopter to my table, and I had picked it up off the floor on Saturday night, where it rolled.

"Did he say what time the vote starts?" I asked.

"Ten, Signora."

"And where he sits?"

"The head of the long table. Seven capos on his left, five on his right."

"Then you'll drive me."

"I can't."

I took the pistol out of my bag.

I did not point it.

I held it down at my side, with the grip showing, and the driver looked at the letters cut in the wood.

"Feet apart," he said, with a faint, tired smile. "Both hands."

"You remember."

"Signora, I won't forget it as long as I live."

"I'm not asking you to disobey him. I'm asking you to tell him afterward that I didn't give you a choice."

"He won't believe me."

"He will when he sees my face."

He looked at the dress, and the ring, and the bag in Nella's hand.

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