Dante tapped on Uncle Alfredo’s door and the nurse admitted him. Cara had worked the morning shift, making sure the old man was clean, freshly dressed, and had taken his daily regimen of medications. Alfredo was in pain much of the time, but there were moments when he was able to sit out on the patio surrounded by the roses Dante had planted for him when he first arrived. That’s where Dante found him now, his white hair still damp from his sponge bath. He had a shawl pulled over his shoulders and he had his eyes closed, enjoying the early morning sunshine.

Dante pulled up a chair and Alfredo acknowledged him without bothering to look.

“How was Canada?”

Dante said, “Boring. Too warm to ski and too cold to do anything else. Two days in, my knees were killing me. Lola claimed it was psychosomatic so I got no sympathy. She said I was just looking for an excuse to go home. How are you?”

His uncle managed a half smile. “Not wonderful.”

“Mornings are tough. It’ll get better as the day goes on.”

“With enough pills,” he said. “Yesterday, Father Ignatius came to the house and heard my confession. First time in forty-five years, so it took a while.”

“Must have been a relief.”

“Not as much as I’d hoped.”

“Any regrets?”

“Everybody has regrets. Things you did, you shouldn’t have. Things you didn’t do, you should have. Hard to know which is worse.”

Dante said, “Maybe in the end, it doesn’t matter.”

“Believe me, it matters. Tell yourself it doesn’t, but it does. I repented my sins, but that don’t repair the damage.”

“At least you had a chance to come clean.”

Alfredo shrugged. “I wasn’t entirely candid. Close as I am to leaving this earth, there are some secrets I’m reluctant to give up. It’s a burden on my soul.”

“You still have time.”

“Don’t I wish,” he said mildly. “How’s Cappi doing?”

“That fuck’s got more ambition than brains.”

Alfredo smiled and closed his eyes. “So use that to your advantage. You know Sun-Tzu, The Art of War?”

“I do not. He says what?”

“‘To secure ourselves against defeat lies in our own hands, but the opportunity of defeating the enemy is provided by the enemy himself.’ You understand what I’m saying?”

Dante studied his uncle’s face. “I’ll give it some thought.”

“You better do more than that.” Uncle Alfredo fell silent.

Dante watched the rise and fall of his chest, shoulders now spindly, arms as white as bone. His knuckles were red and swollen, and Dante imagined they’d be hot to the touch. A gentle snoring began, which at least signaled that the old man was alive if not attentive. He admired Alfredo’s stoicism. The fight was wearing him down, the pain grinding away at him, but he didn’t complain. Dante had no use for people who whined and bellyached, an attitude he’d learned from Pop, who wouldn’t tolerate complaints from him or from anyone else. Dante had lived his life listening to his father’s admonitions about people whom he considered weak and stupid and conniving.

Dante was the eldest of six. Cappi was the youngest with the four girls between them. After his mother had walked out, Lorenzo had taken to beating Dante with a savagery that was unrelenting. Dante took the punches, thinking to protect his little brother. He knew Lorenzo would never lay a hand on the girls. Between the ages of twelve and fourteen, Cappi was subject to the same abuse, but then something changed. Cappi began to fight back, refusing to take the old man’s crap. For a brief period, the violence escalated and then, suddenly, Lorenzo backed off. Whatever the strange dynamic between them, Cappi had ended up just like Pop, careless, mean, and impulsive.

The dining room was empty when Dante sat down. Sophie had laid out the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, the Los Angeles Times, and the local paper that Dante occasionally scanned for gossip. Lola wouldn’t be joining him. She’d use jet lag as today’s excuse for sleeping in. Lola was a night owl, staying up until all hours watching TV, old black-and-white movies shown nightly on an off channel. Most days she wouldn’t emerge from the master suite until early afternoon. One day a week she went into the office and made a show of being useful. He’d put her on the payroll and he insisted she do something to earn her keep.

She was the first woman who’d been in his life longer than a year. He’d always been wary of women. He made a point of keeping his distance, which most women found intriguing at first, then infuriating, and finally intolerable. Women wanted a relationship that was concrete and clearly defined. The commitment talk would begin after the first few months and accelerate until he shut it down and the women moved on. He never had to break up with them. They broke up with him, which suited him just fine. It had been pointed out to him more than once that he was attracted to the same type over and over: young, dark-haired, dark-eyed, and thin; in effect, his mother at thirty-three when she’d left without a word.