Chapter 18: Envelopes

The Lucarelli social club sat on the corner of Dalton Street, behind a green awning and a locked glass door.

I had been inside twice in nine years, both times to collect my husband.

Today I walked in through the front with nine women behind me.

The white-haired wife led them.

The wife of the capo who had stood up in the dining room carried a leather folder under her arm.

There were forty men in the main room, in pinstripe suits and their good watches.

Rocco sat at the head table with a shoebox in front of him.

It was full of white envelopes.

He had a handful of them fanned in his left hand, and he was smiling at a man who had just taken one.

The smile stopped when he saw me.

"Cosima," Rocco said. "You shouldn't be here."

"I came for the vote."

"The vote is tomorrow."

"I came for yours," I said, and I looked down the room. "All of yours."

Ugo stood by the bar with his arms folded.

He did not look at me.

He had given Rocco the old man's phone ten minutes before, and an envelope of what Rocco believed were the letters.

Rocco had found a stack of grocery receipts inside.

He had not said a word to Ugo, and Ugo had not blinked.

"Ladies," Rocco said, with the old warm voice. "This is a men's room. Please wait outside."

"No," said the white-haired wife.

"I am eighty years old, Rocco. I held you at your christening. I will stand in any room I want."

A few of the men shifted their feet.

I walked to the head table and put the leather folder down between the shoebox and the whisky.

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