Chapter 11: The Truce Dinner

My father kissed me on both cheeks at his own front door.

"My girl," he said. "You look well."

"I'm well, Papa."

"Married life suits you."

"It does."

He smiled at me, and I smiled back, and neither of us blinked.

Tadeo stood beside me with his hand on the small of my back.

Behind us came Ines, with a black clutch under her arm.

Inside the clutch, in a sandwich bag, was a copy of my mother's tape.

Giulia came last, pale in a green dress, with Ramiro offering her his arm.

I hadn't wanted to bring her.

My father had asked for her by name, and Tadeo had said no.

The invitation had come again with the words "or no dinner."

So we'd brought her, and I'd tucked a steak knife into my garter belt.

The dining room had not changed in fifteen years.

Same long walnut table, same crucifix over the sideboard, same chair at the head where he sat down and spread his napkin.

Brancato captains lined the left side.

Quinteros lined the right.

The old priest from my mother's church sat at the foot, small and white-haired, turning his glass of water in his fingers.

I took the seat on my father's right.

It was the chair she used to sit in.

"To the dead," my father said, and raised his glass.

Everyone stood.

"To Marisa, who loved both our houses, and was taken from us by a coward's bullet."

His voice cracked on the last word.

A tear slid down his cheek.

He was crying, and for one second I almost believed it.

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