Sunday Dinner

The truth. He wants the truth.

You can't give him the real one. But you can give him a true one.

"A job," you say. "A paycheck that clears. And for your daughter not to get shot on my shift."

Aldo Vitale studies you. His hand is still crushing yours.

"That's all?"

"That's what I want." You hold his eyes. "What I'd like is a different question."

For a second nobody moves. Then the old man laughs, a deep sound that starts in his belly, and lets go of your hand to slap your cheek lightly, twice, the way grandfathers do to grandsons in movies.

"What I'd like is a different question." He turns toward the hallway. "Fina. You hear this one? Smart mouth."

"I heard." Serafina is walking toward you now, in a soft cream sweater with her hair down for once, and she's very carefully not smiling. "I warned you, Papa."

With her hair down and no armor on, she's so lovely it's almost unfair. You forget, for a second, to let go of her father's hand.

"You warned me it was quiet. That's not quiet. That's careful." He waves you inside. "Come. Eat. Rocco made the gravy, so if it's bad, blame him."

The dining room is all dark wood and a long table set for six. Oil paintings on the walls, landscapes with lots of sky, signed in the corner with a small E. A crystal chandelier with one bulb out. Smells of garlic and slow-cooked tomatoes and bread.

A man rises from the far end of the table when you come in.

Rocco Bassi is fifty-eight and looks like a retired professor. Silver hair, rimless glasses, a gray cashmere vest. He's holding an orange in one hand and a small paring knife in the other, and he's peeling it in a single long spiral that hasn't broken.

"You must be Ethan," he says, and his voice is gentle, almost musical. "I'm Rocco. I've known this one since she was born." A nod at Serafina. "Changed her diapers. She bit me once."

"You deserved it," Serafina says.

"I did. I was trying to take her shoe." He sets the knife down and shakes your hand. His palm is cool and dry. "Thank you. For Friday."

"I was just closest."

"Mm." His eyes stay on yours, kind and curious. "Where are you from originally?"

"Milwaukee."

"Lovely city. Which part?"

"Bay View."

"Ah, by the lake. I had a friend with a bakery on Kinnickinnic. Long time ago." The orange peel finally drops to the plate in one perfect coil. "Sit, please. Next to Fina. Aldo will want you where he can see you."

You sit. Serafina sits beside you. Under the table, for one second, her knee touches yours, and you can't tell if it's an accident.

Tullio arrives ten minutes late, in a leather jacket, his gold watch flashing as he kisses Aldo on both cheeks. He sees you and stops.

"You brought the bartender to Sunday dinner?"

"I brought my friend," Serafina says.

"Your friend." Tullio drops into the chair across from you and grins. "Your friend doesn't comp family drinks, Zio. Did she tell you that?"

"She told me," Aldo says, passing a bowl of rigatoni. "She told me your friends drank forty dollars of gin and you didn't leave a tip."

"I'm family."

"Family tips better." Aldo points his fork at his nephew. "Eat."

Tullio eats. He doesn't stop watching you.

The dinner goes on for two hours. Rigatoni, then braciole, then a salad, because Aldo says salad goes after the meat like God intended. Rocco tells a long story about Aldo in 1989 losing a bet and having to sing Sinatra at a wedding in Cicero. Aldo argues with every detail. Serafina laughs, really laughs, head back, a sound you didn't know she could make.

You watch her. You can't stop. She's different here. Younger. She steals olives off her father's plate and he pretends not to notice.

Twice, Rocco catches you watching. Twice he smiles, like he understands.

Tullio doesn't smile at all.

"So where'd you learn to tackle like that?" he asks, over the salad. "Bartending school?"

"High school football," you say. It's true; you played two seasons as a kicker and quit.

"Bartender and athlete. And you just happened to be in the alley."

"I was taking out the trash."

"At the exact moment somebody tries to kill my cousin." Tullio spreads his hands at the table. "Am I the only one who thinks that's a coincidence?"

"Tullio." Aldo doesn't raise his voice. The table goes quiet anyway.

"I'm just asking questions, Zio."

"Ask them somewhere else." Aldo sets his fork down. "Somebody shot at my daughter, and this one put his body in the way. You know who wasn't in the alley? You. You know where you were? Neither do I. So maybe you shouldn't talk about coincidences at my table."

Tullio goes red to the ears. He opens his mouth.

Rocco touches his arm. "More wine, Tullio?"

The moment passes. Tullio pours wine and doesn't speak again until dessert.

After the cannoli, Aldo stands and jerks his head at you. "Come. I'll show you my lemons."

Serafina half rises. Aldo waves her down. "Sit, Fina. I'm not going to bury your friend in the garden. It's November. The ground's too hard."

The greenhouse is long and warm and smells green. Rows of potted citrus trees, some taller than you, their leaves glossy under grow lights. Lemons hang everywhere, bright as lamps. A wooden chair sits at the far end next to a small easel with nothing on it.

"My wife planted the first one," Aldo says, touching a gnarled trunk in a terracotta pot. "From a cutting she smuggled in her suitcase from Amalfi. Thirty years ago. Customs never caught her. She was very good at smiling."

"Serafina said she painted."

"She painted everything. Those in the dining room are hers." He picks a dead leaf off a branch. "She died twelve years ago. A car bomb, outside her studio. The police said it was the Brancatos. The FBI said it was the Brancatos. Somebody went to prison and then died in prison, and everybody said, there, finished."

He turns the leaf over in his big fingers.

"I didn't believe it then. I don't believe it now. And now somebody shoots at my daughter." He looks at you over the leaf. "You understand what I'm telling you?"

"That you think it's connected."

"That I think nobody is who they say they are. Not my friends. Not my family. Not the police." He drops the leaf into a pot. "Not bartenders who tackle like linebackers."

Your pulse kicks. You keep your face still.

"Fina doesn't bring people home," Aldo says. "She brought a boy, once, years ago. He disappeared. She doesn't talk about it." He steps closer. He smells like cigars and lemon leaves. "So I'm going to say this one time, the way my father said it to the man who married my sister. If you hurt my daughter, in any way, nobody finds you. Not the police. Not your mother. Nobody."

"I understand."

"Good." He pats your face again, gentler this time. "Then pick a lemon. Take it home. Liliana always gave guests a lemon."

You pick one. It's warm from the lights.

Serafina walks you out to the street at dusk. The men by the garage watch you go. The sky over River Forest is streaked orange and violet, and the cold has teeth now.

She stops at your car with her arms crossed against the wind.

"What did he say to you?"

"That if I hurt you, nobody finds me."

"He says that to everyone." She pauses. "Did he give you a lemon?"

You hold it up.

Serafina stares at it. Something complicated moves across her face.

"He hasn't given anyone one of those since my mother died," she says quietly.

"Is that good?"

"It means my father liked you." She looks back at the glowing greenhouse, then at you, and her eyes are very dark in the fading light. "That's the most dangerous thing that's happened to you this week, Ethan. And someone shot at you on Friday."