From Montana, Martin Spordonza wrote Ambruzzo a letter. He was sitting by a river. There were mountains behind him. He felt close to his soul, but missed the antipasto. He asked Ambruzzo to send him some fresh Italian meats, a jar of olives, and a cut of Parmigiano-Reggiano. With the family no longer under his supervision, word was out on Rocco Briolli’s hit. Martin warned about retribution. He told Ambruzzo that he was his father.

When he tracked down Amy’s husband, Ambruzzo found him thin and troubled looking. How easy it would be, he thought, for this man to be trampled. In the scope of Ambruzzo’s rifle, Amy’s husband scratched his nose. He took out the keys to his car and unlocked the door. He threw his briefcase into the backseat, climbed in, started the engine, pulled to the edge of the parking lot, paused, turned, and glided into traffic. He was whistling.

That night, Ambruzzo tried again. He climbed the tree by the side of their house. He could see inside the bathroom. Amy’s husband was flossing his teeth, staring at himself in the mirror. His mouth opened wide and twisted one way, then the other, as he reached for the molars. In the next room, Amy sat on the edge of their bed in a bathrobe. She stood, walked to the window, and opened it. Ambruzzo was fifteen feet away.

Her face was tired. There were lines around the corners of her mouth that made her look like she was frowning. Her hair was tied loosely in a braid. She put her hands on the sill, then brought them back and crossed them over her chest. She turned toward the bathroom, and as she was about to go in, she looked back into the night where Ambruzzo was hiding, and waved.

At the Sons of Italy, Ambruzzo learned that he was being followed. The Briolli family, along with the cast and crew of Tosca, had hired a team to take him out. Ambruzzo received the news calmly. He ordered himself a sandwich. He bit into the hard, crusty bread, and tomato seeds got caught in his teeth. He ran his tongue over the tiny bumps. He made no effort to remove them.

Ambruzzo was still waiting to feel something. Inside there was nothing but a dull vibration through the ice, but in the darkness of Amy Stackenfrach’s yard, with the bark of the tree against his back, he had come close. Hello. It greeted him, and by the time he realized he wanted to wave back hello, she had turned, walked into the bathroom, and slid her arms around the waist of her husband.