The study smells of wood polish and old ledgers, and the only light is a brass desk lamp that puts Lazzaro Falzone's face in gold and leaves the rest of the room in shadow. He sits behind a desk of dark red wood with a sheaf of documents under his hands, and his mother, Donna Vincenza, stands at his shoulder in a deep-red satin suit and a rope of pearls, one finger raised. It is her voice that has been carrying the room for the last ten minutes.
He promised you jewels, estates, protection, impossible favors, and every tenderness he has. You believed him then. You believe him now, watching his thumb press the corner of a page he is not reading.
Donna Vincenza lowers the finger and turns it on you.
"In this house,"
she says,
"a woman does not enter on his word. She enters on mine. So I will ask once: what do you bring, besides my son's weakness for you?"
Lazzaro doesn't look at his mother. He looks at you, and for one second the Don is gone and there is only the man who has been promising you the world. The documents wait under his hands, and his jaw is set in a way that tells you he has already made up his mind.
"Answer her."
His voice is low and steady, as if the two of you are the only people in the room.
"Whatever you say, it's already yours. But say it to her face."
He slides the documents across the desk toward you — the deed, the accounts, the ring — and leaves his hand there, palm up, waiting.