“Hey there.” It’s my cousin Ray, acting as if he never did an evil thing to a good woman in a rooftop greenhouse.

I step in without being invited. Massimo sits sideways behind the desk, his bad leg propped up on a metal folding chair. Timo, our old bodyguard, leans on the windowsill with his arms crossed. Another man faces the desk. He turns to look my way, unlit cigar clamped between his teeth, draping an arm over the back of his chair. Uncle Caesar. My father’s brother. He’s in import-export, whatever that means. His three-story brownstone on 87th Street houses six children—two from his new, young wife. My snooping revealed his tithes to the church could fund Colonia stipends all by themselves—his payment to keep having children without raising a single eyebrow.

“The kiddo returns,” he says, standing. “Come over here, girl.”

Out of habit, I obey. Uncle Caesar clamps his cigar deep in the webs of his third and fourth fingers and removes it before planting a kiss on each of my cheeks.

“It’s nice to see you, Uncle Caesar. How’s the baby?”

“Cries. Shits. Eats. Cries.”

“Sounds like she’s doing well.”

“Sure, sure.” He looks at Massimo, who jerks his head ever so slightly, then at the guy at the windowsill. “I gotta take a piss. How about we stretch our legs? Those of us who can.” He barks a big fake laugh, signaling a joke, then slaps his son on the back. “Come on, Raymond. Clear your big thick head.”

Timo—never a talkative guy—nods to me as he passes. Uncle Caesar waits at the door as the other two men exit, then follows, closing the door behind him.

I turn to Massimo. “What does Uncle Caesar want?”

“He wants to make money.” Massimo waves away the idea. “He pays me tributes to worry about shit so he doesn’t have to.”

“Is that what this meeting was about?”

“No. It was about a bunch of other shit that’s not your business. But you’re here now, so why were you waiting outside the door like a fucking sneak?”

“I was there two seconds.”

“I know what you were like, Goody. Going through Dad’s shit. Listening to his conversations. That’s not gonna go on with me.”

“A lot of good it did. I had no idea how bad it was.”

“How bad what was?”

“Am I getting hollowed?”

He sighs. Looks out the window for a moment, then taps his knuckle on the desk. “If I was going that way, would I let you sit with your little sewing buddies?”

No. He wouldn’t. The women of the Colonia think mutilations are a thing of the past. If he intended to do that to me, he would have made sure no one saw me first.

“You’re trying to keep me safe?”

“It’s my job.” He tries to readjust himself to face forward, but he can’t do that and keep his leg lifted. I could tell him I don’t need protection in my own home, but those are just words. I need it here more than anywhere. “Your job is to keep your head down until this all blows over.”