Chapter 5: Carrying His Plates

On Wednesday night, two of Saverio's men drove me to the waterfront in the uniform.

My feet were still bandaged under the black flats they'd given me.

The cap was pinned into my hair so tight it pulled.

The Sciarra restaurant takes up the whole ground floor of an old palazzo by the marina.

Tonight the doors were open, and every table was full.

The Sciarra Family had come.

So had my parents, at a small table near the kitchen.

So had the Families from Trapani and Agrigento, and even from the east coast.

Men in dark suits. Wives in silk. Their grown sons and daughters on their phones.

Most of them had been at the cathedral on Saturday, waiting for me.

Now they turned to look at me in the doorway.

The restaurant manager put a tray of champagne glasses in my hands.

He wouldn't meet my eyes.

"Start with the head table," he said.

The head table was on a low platform under the chandelier.

Saverio's father, the old Don, sat in the middle with a napkin tucked into his collar.

Saverio sat at his right.

Graziella sat beside Saverio in a gold dress, my grandmother's emerald on her hand.

There was one empty chair at the end of the table.

Gaetano's chair.

Nobody had bothered to take his place card away.

I walked up to the platform.

I set a glass in front of the old Don.

He didn't look at me.

I set a glass in front of Saverio.

He did.

"Thank you, Rosaria," he said, loud enough for the first three tables. "You look good in black."

Somebody laughed.

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