“My grandfather. Pietro Rossi. He came from Prizzi.”
The old man’s expression changed.
His fingers slipped on the cane.
For a moment, the only sound was rain striking the restaurant windows.
“Pietro,” he repeated.
The name seemed to hurt him.
Nora swallowed.
“Yes, sir.”
Salvatore's eyes traveled over her face again.
“Did he have a scar on his left hand?”
She frowned.
“A white line across his knuckles.”
The old man closed his eyes.
Dante stepped closer.
“Papa, what's happening?”
Salvatore ignored him.
He asked Nora another question in Sicilian.
“What did Pietro call you when you were little?”
She hesitated.
“Passiridda.”
Little sparrow.
Salvatore's cane struck the floor.
Once.
Hard.
Dante caught his father's arm.
“Sit down.”
But Salvatore shook him off.
He stared at Nora as though a ghost had walked into the restaurant wearing a waitress's uniform.
“Is Pietro alive?”
Nora felt the familiar tightening beneath her ribs.
“No. He died in February.”
The old man's face collapsed.
Not dramatically.
Not all at once.
Something simply disappeared from it.
“He died?”
She nodded.
“He was seventy-eight.”
Salvatore looked toward the empty chair beside him.
Then whispered something Nora barely heard.
“I was too late.”
Dante's expression sharpened.
“Too late for what?”
Salvatore lifted his head.
“Tell me your name, girl.”
“Nora Rossi.”
“Your mother's name?”
Nora went cold.
“Why?”
“Please.”
It was the first polite word he'd spoken to her.
“My mother was Elena.”
Salvatore staggered.
Dante grabbed him before he fell.
“Papa!”
The old man clutched his son's sleeve.
“Elena,” he whispered.
Then he looked directly at Nora.
“Your grandfather was my brother.”
The dining room seemed to tilt.
Nora stared at him.
“My grandfather didn't have a brother.”
Salvatore's eyes filled.
“He had one.”
He took a shaking breath.
“And I spent thirty years pretending he was dead.”
Dante looked from his father to Nora.
Then his face changed.
Because if Salvatore was telling the truth, the quiet waitress standing before them was not a stranger.