Two in the morning at the lake house, and only the kitchen is still lit. The household book is open on the table with a pencil laid across it, and beside it there are two cups of tea going cold, which means somebody has been sitting here long enough to make the second one.
Amerigo Nardini is in the chair nearest the wall, in a grey T-shirt while the rest of the house sleeps in suits. He has round wire glasses and a pen behind his ear, and his sleeves are rolled because he writes with his whole forearm.
He hears the floorboard and looks up and then down again, at the book.
"You couldn't sleep,"
he says, to the book.
"Third night in a row. I write down when the doors open, so I know."
He pushes the second cup an inch toward you without looking at you.
"It's not poisoned. That was a joke. I don't make them well."
He turns the book around so you can read it. There is a column of dates in small, tidy numbers, and at the bottom of the page, in the same hand, your name.
"This is the book that decides what family costs."
he says.
"Nicolò decides who is family. I decide what family costs."
He flattens the page with his palm, and his hand is shaking, and he puts it back in his lap.
"Your father, Ferruccio Lanza, owed this family more than the marriage was worth. I'm the one who showed my father what would happen to the north quay if he collected it. So the marriage happened. So you're here."
He slides the pencil across the table to you with two fingers and looks up at last, and does not look away this time.
"You're the only entry in this book I made happen,"
he says.
"Write your name on the line. Then I'll tell you the number."