Chapter 22: Corsini's Last Lunch

The restaurant on Staten Island had a green awning and a menu that had not changed in forty years.

On Sunday at one o'clock, Rocco parked the Rolls across the front of it and turned off the engine.

"You don't have to come in," he said.

"Yes, I do."

"Your side."

"Is held together with tape and spite. Give me my gun."

He reached into the glove box and took out the Glock the Corsini men had taken from me at the shed.

One of his men had found it in the river mud and cleaned it.

I checked the magazine and slid it behind my belt, under the black jacket.

He held out his hand.

I took it, and we walked in together.

The dining room was full.

There were twelve men at the long table at the back, and a lot of red sauce, and a smell of garlic.

Every head turned.

The Corsini boss sat at the head of the table with his right wrist in a white bandage and his napkin tucked into his collar.

His captains sat on both sides of him.

Nobody spoke.

Then the nearest captain, a heavy man with a gold ring on every finger, laid his fork down on his plate.

"Don Ferrante," he said. "This is a private lunch."

"The Commission voted yesterday," Rocco said. "I'm told you were informed."

"We were informed."

"Then you know why I'm here."

The boss lifted his napkin and wiped his mouth.

"You have no standing in this room," he said. "Sit down, Rocco. Have some wine. We can discuss the port lease like gentlemen."

"The families have withdrawn," said the captain with the rings, and he did not look at the boss.

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