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The dining room is shrouded in darkness. The shutters are closed, dispelling the harsh summer sun. The AC does the job of keeping the room cool, but the gloom seems fitting.
Breaths and perfume mingle around me where I stand next to my father’s chair at the head of the table. He sits quietly, staring straight ahead. We each have a glass in our hands. His is empty. Mine still contains the four fingers of Scotch he poured.
The end of his cigarillo burns red as he drags on the tobacco, puffing the smoke into the already stuffy room. The air is thick with the heady scent of the white lily wreaths on the mantlepiece, sideboard, and table. Thick with mourning. Every mouthful of oxygen I drag into my lungs chokes me with grief.
In between loading their plates with Corsican pates and tapenades, people file past to pat my father’s shoulder.
Their voices are demure. “We’re sorry for your loss.”
They nod at me, avoiding looking into my eyes, perhaps because of what they see there.
Someone opens the window and grabs the latch of the shutter.
“Leave it,” I say.
A woman. “It’s so dark in here. Letting in some light will help—”
“Leave it,” I say again, harsher this time.
The woman jumps. She closes the window and scurries away.
My cousin, Toma, enters. He catches my gaze from across the room and gives a slight nod.
My father stands.
People step aside. They clear a path as we make our way to the study and continue their conversations when the shuffle is over.
Toma enters first. My uncles are already inside.
I close the door.
My father goes to his desk, his face a mask of loathing and wrath.
Every muscle in my body draws tight as I stop in front of my family.
“Is it done?” my father asks.
I clench my hands in anticipation of the answer.
“Yes,” Uncle Nico says, his manner resigned. “He talked.”
My father narrows his eyes to slits. “Is he alive?”
“Yes,” Uncle Enzo says. “Like you instructed.”
I look down. My hands are empty. I should’ve brought that drink. But I don’t want to blur my reason. I want to be lucid. I want to—needto—remember every detail of this day.
My father curls his fingers into a fist on the desk. My uncles wait. When my father dips his head to indicate that he’s ready, Uncle Enzo speaks.
“Cossu cut the brake cables.” Uncle Enzo hesitates as if he’s too afraid to continue.
Uncle Nico speaks. “As for you, Angelo, he was supposed to paint thallium on your steering wheel. When absorbed through the skin, death is slow and painful. The only reason he hadn’t done it that morning was because the delivery of the parcel was delayed.
“The guy who brought it in via boat from Marseille had engine trouble on the way. We intercepted him at Cossu’s house. He didn’t know what was in the parcel or who paid him. He said the arrangements were made over the phone and no names were mentioned. Fifty percent of the payment was deposited in his bank account upfront. The parcel arrived by mail. All he knew was that he had to drive the boat to Bastia, rent a car, and make a drop-off at Cossu’s house. Nevertheless, we didn’t want to take any risks. Both him and his boat are now on the bottom of the sea.”
“We checked the rest of the cars thoroughly,” Toma says. “The mechanics work fine. Nothing else has been tampered with.”
“Who paid Cossu?” my father asks, his even tone not masking the hatred riding on those words.
