Antonia has not taken her eyes off of him, has not relaxed her hands enough to let the blood return to her knuckles. Enzo sleeps against her shoulder. “Where is he?” she asks. And she asks like a command. She expects to be told.
“It’s complicated,” says Joey. “It’s so—it’s so complicated, Tonia, and I am so sorry. I never should have hired him. I take the blame for everything.” What Joey wants, what he always wants, is to spare his family any pain. To take charge, to solve the problem, to be the dumping ground for everyone else’s fear and anger for as long as it takes them to heal. He cannot believe he has found himself in this situation again: someone Joey loves is going to die. It is the only way Joey can protect his family. And it is Joey’s fault.
“Uncle Joey, there is no time for sorry,” says Antonia, urgency in the way she leans forward toward Joey as though she might take off. “We have to stop him, we have to help Sofia!”
“This is how we will help Sofia,” says Joey sadly. “This is how it works.”
Joey cannot know how tired Antonia is of being told how things work. So he is surprised when she flies at him, screaming. “There is no how it works! You decided! You decided how it works when my father died! You decided how it works when you hired Saul, when you promoted him, when you gave Sofia a job she loves more than her own—” And then Antonia stops, abruptly, because she can see that Julia and Robbie have crept up behind Joey and are hovering in the shadowed hallway, listening. Hearing everything. Learning how it works. Antonia controls herself with a great effort. “We are going to save Saul, and Sofia. We are going to fix this. You are going to tell us where he is. That will be how it works.”
Joey looks down at Antonia and feels a great surge of love. Antonia is so sure of herself he almost believes she can do it. All of his power will not prevent her from trying.
“Where are they?” Antonia asks again. Her voice is calm now.
But it is not Joey who speaks. It is Rosa. “The Fianzo dock building,” Rosa says. “You know where it is?”
“Of course I do,” says Antonia, who has never been there, but who of course knows where it is. “I’ve been doing this my whole life.”
A quiet settles over the room, the whole place vibrating in the wake of Antonia’s storm. “I thought I’d go look for them, and you can stay with the kids,” says Paolo to Antonia, but to all of them. He speaks to Antonia the way you’d speak to a nervous horse. Their reconciliation is predicated on catastrophe and he does not know if it will last. He still can’t figure out what sea change the birth of Enzo has wrought; it is like he can’t see Antonia, can’t bring her into focus, can’t fit all of her into his field of vision. One moment she is joyful; the next, she darkens away from him. One moment she is buying shrimp for Sunday dinner and the next she is screaming at Joey Colicchio. Paolo remembers how well he thought he could see Antonia before they were married. It occurs to him now to wonder whether he has ever really understood her.
“I’m coming,” says Antonia. “Can the kids stay here?”
Rosa says of course or something to that effect; she wants to convey the absolutism of her affirmation, of course, forever, all of the children, for as long as you want.
“You can’t come,” says Paolo; the idea of letting his wife go out to search for Sofia and Saul in a Fianzo stronghold is absurd.
Antonia does not respond, but hands Enzo to Lina, kisses his face, his curled hands, and everyone in the room can hear and feel the space between Antonia and Enzo echo and tear as Antonia stands and moves away. Antonia’s face is all long anguished lines, all primal torment. Lina looks at Antonia and nods once, almost imperceptibly.
“Tonia, listen to me,” says Paolo. “Let me go find them.” And still, Antonia is silent. But when Paolo reaches out to touch her shoulder, to guide her back to reality, Antonia wheels around and emits a feral, choking snarl, something so animal Paolo flinches back away from her.
“Thank you,” says Antonia to Rosa and Lina, and then she turns and walks out the front door.
Paolo stands for a moment, in shock or in reverence, in absolute silence, and then he looks at Lina and Rosa, at Enzo and Robbie, at Frankie and Julia, and at Joey. And because he has to, Paolo finds his voice. He says, “I have to go.” He turns and walks out the front door of the Colicchio apartment.
* * *
—
The sun comes barging around the corner of the Fianzo building like a battering ram and almost immediately Sofia is sweating. Her underarms and the creases at her knees and elbows drip.
It feels like she has been waiting here for hours. For most people, the anticipation of confrontation would have dulled, but Sofia is not most people. She burns just as brightly now as she did when she left her apartment in the predawn light.
Sofia has been thinking about Saul, and she has been expecting to feel anger but she has been surprised to feel pride, instead. She can see how hard Saul has been working, and she realizes that part of what has attracted her so ferociously to him over the last months has been a sense that there is something he is keeping to himself. Something he is doing apart from her, apart from her family. Sofia has always been attracted to power, and this new thing that lives in Saul is power incarnate: he has been making choices. Fulfilling something. Saul has been forging his own path.
When a black car finally pulls up to the front of the building, she recognizes Tommy Fianzo Jr. immediately. He has the same narrowed eyes he did as a mean little boy. The same smirk, which sits crookedly over his teeth, the same slightly too big for his face lips. He unfolds himself from the car and looks her over with the same disdain. “They told me you were working,” he says to her. On the other side of the car, a man—a guard—shuts his own door. “They also told me you were smart.” Sofia says nothing. “But here you are,” Tommy Jr. says, “so I must have been given false information. Well. It’s not the first time.” Sofia can tell he is enjoying this. She keeps her face neutral.
“I thought we could have a conversation,” she says.
“No harm in a simple conversation,” says Tommy Jr. “Check her,” he says, and then jerks his head. In one motion, the guard comes around Tommy’s car toward Sofia. His hands are on her before she can think: they are rough and dispassionate, as though Sofia could be a bag of sand, a block of ice. He presses his fingers against her ribs, her calves, the small of her back. “She’s clear,” he says to Tommy Jr.
“Very well,” says Tommy Jr. He gestures for Sofia to follow him upstairs.
The Fianzo office smells like stale meat, something brown and sinister Sofia does not want to inhale too deeply. Tommy Fianzo Jr. offers her a seat before lighting a noxious cigar that clouds Sofia’s eyesight and mind. She and Fianzo could be anywhere. They could be the last two people alive.
“I know what my husband has been doing,” says Sofia. “And judging by the state of him, I assume you do too.”
“?‘The state of him’?” asks Tommy Jr. He leans forward, interested. “I haven’t touched him, no.” He raises a hand, anticipating Sofia’s disbelief. “It’s true! I would admit it if I had. And I’ll admit I’m glad someone has.”
“I’m sure you are,” says Sofia. Make him feel safe. Make him feel like it was his idea. “I wanted to apologize for him.”
“And what good do you think that will do?” asks Tommy Jr.
“I’m not focused on what it will do,” says Sofia. “I just think you deserve an apology. You gave him a chance, and he betrayed you.”
Tommy Jr. is looking for the trick. Finding none, he leans back slightly in his chair. “I’ve always been against outsiders,” he says. “There’s no way to do this right unless you were raised in it. And people—people thought it was the Jewish thing, and sure, you can’t deny that they’re—well, crafty—but I would have felt that way about anyone, anyone from outside. You can’t join in, here. You can’t do it halfway.”
“I know,” says Sofia. “I know how it works.”