I tried to explain what Ferragamo had told me on the phone, how it would be best to settle the issue and move on; that I wouldn’t win against the government in a fight over the estate; and that if I returned to Italy, having made this gesture, the criminal charges against him—regarding diversion of government funds—would be treated more kindly.

“Do you think they are suddenly going to welcome you with open arms?”

“I have no illusions.”

“Cardinal Whiting—you know how much he despises you. He’s got the pope by the ear—and the prime minister, too.”

“This may be, but . . .”

“They mean to split you open. They will take everything.”

“If we run, they’ll track us down. We’ll get nothing.”

“You’re well provided for. For me, there’s nothing.”

“I won’t abandon you.”

“This is exactly what you are doing.”

“What would you have me do instead?”

My brother had no real answer. He hadn’t imagined the estate would be tied up in this way. He was getting worked up now. I had seen this before, when things didn’t turn in his direction. He’d done everything for me, he said. He’d given up his own life. He’d licked ass and sucked dick and put up with those vainglorious Italians—not to mention Frank Paris—and he’d listened to their talk, shuffling his feet all the while, running every fool’s errands. And all for what? So his sister could dress up like some housewife on holiday, with her legs spread open and the Prince of Egypt on his knees, peering in.

“Don’t speak to me that way.”

“What?”

“Don’t make a spectacle.”

It was the wrong thing to say. He kicked at the table. He swept an ashtray onto the floor. Johnny didn’t usually act this way, not with me, but the veneer cracked and the charm gave way to rage. Dazio rushed from the deck.

“Stop it!”

Dazio’s chest was out, his face all red. It was a brave moment, but he was just a child.

“No, Johnny. Leave him alone.”

“This one, too, then. You’re fucking him, as well.”

“Johnny.”

“You’ve always liked little boys.”

“You shouldn’t talk to her like that,” Dazio said.

“I shouldn’t?”

“No, it’s rude.”

Johnny struck him in the face. Dazio raised his arm in self-defense and cowered toward the wall. This infuriated Johnny even more. He kicked the boy. He threw him to the carpet. Then kicked him again.

“Johnny!”

“Shut up.”

Gasparo came up from below. Bigger than my brother and stronger, carrying that sidearm in the holster underneath his shirt. If it hadn’t been for the sidearm, Johnny might have gone after him, too—but I don’t think Gasparo would have minded. Gasparo didn’t care much for Johnny. He felt cooped up, too.

“What’s going on here?”