Nonna understood this better than anyone. She treated the feast with the gravity of a war council, scrutinizing every detail, every name on the guest list, every arrangement of flowers and crystal. Nothing could be left to chance.
The night of the gathering arrived.
The grand hall of the Genovese estate had not been opened in years, but Nonna and I had restored it to its former glory. Crystal chandeliers threw fractured light across white linen tablecloths. Silver candelabras lined the center of the long table. The scent of fresh gardenias and aged wine hung in the air like a benediction. Riviera City's elite filled the room: capos, consiglieres, old-guard dons with silver hair and heavy rings, their wives draped in black silk and diamonds.
Rosalia entered behind Giancarlo and Salvatore.
She wore a gown that must have cost more than anything a girl from the slums had any right to own. Midnight blue, cut low, designed to make men forget she had no family crest to speak of. She paused just inside the entrance and let her gaze sweep the hall, taking in the chandeliers, the silver, the gathered power of a dozen families.