Chapter 6: The Paper

The sedan pulled away from the curb before Matteo could cross the street.

He stood watching its taillights with his hand still on the roof of our car.

"He followed you," I said.

"No. He followed you." Matteo's voice was flat. "He's had a man outside my house since Sunday."

"Why would my father follow me to my mother's grave?"

"I don't know," Matteo said, and I heard how carefully he said it.

I was too tired to ask what the care was for.

That evening, at seven, the doorbell rang.

Matteo's men were in the hall before Fiorenza had put down her spoon.

Salvatore stood on the step in his black overcoat, with Antonella on one side of him and Carmela on the other.

Behind them a thin man in glasses held a leather folder.

"We've come to see our daughter," Antonella said.

"Come in," Matteo said. "Leave your coats on. You won't be long."

They stood in the front hall under the lamp.

Six of Matteo's men lined the stairs and the hallway, and Fiorenza stood in the kitchen doorway with her arms folded.

I came down the stairs in my sweater, one hand on the rail.

Salvatore looked at me the way he had looked at me across the reception, and I couldn't read it.

"Where were you this morning?" he asked.

"At a grave," I said.

His face went still, and the hand at his side opened and closed.

"You followed me, Papa," I said. I hadn't called him that in twenty years. "Why?"

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