Chapter 12: Make It Quick

He lived.

They took his spleen and two feet of his bowel, and by Thursday he was breathing on his own again in the ICU with a cop outside his door.

He wouldn't say another word to the detectives.

He wouldn't say another word to me either. Every time I came in, he looked at the door and shut his eyes.

Somebody had scared him worse than a bat.

On Saturday night I stood in front of the bedroom mirror in a long dark green dress.

I hadn't worn green in five years.

Giancarlo came up behind me with a flat black box.

"Nonna's," he said. "She says you wear them tonight or she'll curse you."

Inside was a necklace of old emeralds, heavy and dark, the clasp worn thin.

"Giancarlo, I can't."

"She'll curse you, Doc. She cursed the mayor once. He lost."

He fastened it around my neck. His fingers lingered on the clasp.

"First time in public," he said.

"First time on purpose."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

He kissed my shoulder.

"Then let's go to my ballroom," he said.

The Lyle Foundation Gala filled the second floor of the Hotel Marchese.

Six hundred people in black tie. A string quartet. Gold chairs, white roses, a stage with a podium and a big screen with the foundation's logo on it.

Whitney's father had booked it a year ago, before he knew whose ballroom it was.

When the doors opened and Giancarlo walked in with me on his arm, the whole room turned.

I heard my name go through it.

That's her. The doctor. The mob wife. The lobby video.

Then I heard the other word.

Donna.

The hotel manager was at the door. He bowed so low his carnation nearly fell out.

"Good evening, Donna Marchese."

"Good evening," I said. "Thank you for the flowers. Please stop."

"Never," he said.

The bigger guard from the lobby was posted by the stage. He saw me and straightened up.

Whitney was at the head table in silver.

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