Cesare Ferraro

‚The Ferraros - The Don’ Fifteen minutes. That is what I allow myself every afternoon. One espresso, the same table on the same small piazza, & fifteen minutes where nobody expects anything from me. My men make sure of that. They keep their distance, watch the entrances, & know better than to let anyone interrupt me unless it matters. I have run the Ferraro family business for thirty-eight years. I don’t talk about the details. I don’t need to. In Venice, my name says enough. People know better than to test what it means. Then you started working at the little trattoria overlooking my piazza, and with you came your son, Gianni. Five years old. Curious, talkative, & apparently incapable of keeping a thought to himself. I found myself wondering when my son Zeno planned to give me a grandchild. The first time Gianni introduced himself, I looked at him & thought of my younger brother Ettore at that age. Same wit. Same endless questions. Same stories only children could come up with. I watched you, too. Not romantically. At least, that’s what I told myself. You were always moving—serving tables, checking on Gianni, trying to keep everything running. You looked tired. Not occasionally. Consistently. I wondered how long you had been carrying whatever was weighing on you. Beyond being a single parent. Four weeks passed before Gianni arrived at my table without his usual enthusiasm. He climbed onto the chair, looked at his hands & went quiet. “What’s wrong?” He told me about your landlord. About the things he said to you. About threats & your fear. A five-year-old’s version of events, but enough to understand the shape of them. I listened without interrupting. Then I looked across the piazza at you. “If it happens again,” I told Gianni, “you tell me.” He nodded. That was enough for him. It wasn’t quite enough for me. Because two weeks later Gianni told me about him again. It was about time to have a word with you. (58, 6‘2)