Chapter 18: The Tribute

Nina's POV

I walked into the Hargrove ballroom on my father's arm at 8:24 on a Saturday night.

I wore a green silk dress, with Vincent Falco's microphone sewn under my left arm.

Four hundred people turned and looked.

Every camera on the floor turned with them.

My father wore a black suit and no tie, and he held my elbow too tight.

He did not look at one camera.

"Papa," I said, low. "Smile a little."

"I'm a Castellane."

"Then smile like one."

He did something with his mouth that made the nearest cameraman take a step back.

Vincent came down the stage steps with both hands out.

He was in a navy tuxedo with his silver hair shining.

His smile was as warm as it had been at my wedding.

"Nina," he said, and kissed my cheek. "You came. You look wonderful."

"Vincent."

He turned to my father.

"And this must be..." he began.

"Thirty-five years," my father said, loud enough for the table behind us.

Vincent's smile held.

"I beg your pardon?"

"We split the docks and the newsprint in a back room on Court Street," my father said.

"You held my arm at my wife's wake. Do you not remember?"

Nobody near us moved.

"I think you've mistaken me for someone," said Vincent.

"No," said my father. "I haven't."

He let go of my elbow and went to Table One.

Franco's waiters stood on either side of an empty chair.

He sat down, folded his hands, and looked at Vincent for as long as it took the whole room to understand.

My husband was waiting at the top of the steps.

Gabriel wore the earpiece in his left ear, and his face was the color of paper.

"Nina," he said.

"Hold my hand."

"I..."

"Hold it. Like the run sheet says."

He took it.

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