Chapter 29: Say It at Your Own Table

Sunday dinner was laid at noon, and the Don sat at the head of his own table for the last time.

The crystal had been swept away, and a new chandelier lamp hung crooked over the wood.

Eleven captains sat in their places.

Raffaele stood behind Gemma's chair, and Bruno sat at the foot with his hands folded, in a borrowed suit.

Vittorio wore his best gray jacket, and a ring on each hand.

He looked at the clock over the sideboard and smiled.

"Any minute now," he said.

At five past twelve, heavy fists hit the front door.

"Federal agents! Open up!"

The captains went still.

A few hands moved toward their belts, and the scarred captain said, "Nobody move."

Vittorio laughed, and the sound was low and happy.

"There it is. Gentlemen, I'm sorry for all of you."

Gemma got to her feet.

"I'll answer it," she said.

"Sit down, girl."

"No."

She walked the whole length of the dining room, past the captains and the hall, and opened the front door herself.

Three agents stood on the step with a paper, and behind them on the lawn, a row of photographers with long lenses.

The woman in front held up a badge.

"Gemma Sandrelli?"

"Yes."

"We have a warrant for the premises, and for the records of Albertini Freight."

"I know," said Gemma. "My mother was going to bring you those records on a Monday, ten years ago."

The agent blinked.

"Come in," Gemma said. "You'll want to see this at the table."

She led them down the hall.

The agents stopped in the dining room doorway.

Eleven hard faces looked back at them, and at the head of the table the Don spread his hands with a gracious nod.

"Welcome to my home," he said. "I called you myself."

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