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I look across the room. On this grim day, the scent of Calabrian orange wafts through the room. Angelo Strazza is entertaining the Sodality members at the bar. They gather around him, plying him with their baked goods, their version of flirting. (That would have been me someday, if I hadn’t left.)

“Your mother wants you in the living room,” Dad warns me.

I nod. Perhaps I found inner peace a moment too soon.

Dad looks around to the guests. “Please. Enjoy the open bar.”

“I don’t think you need to remind them,” I say quietly to Dad.

“I’m sorry,” Connie says, following me out to the living room.

“It’s all good,” I assure my sister. Good ole Lake Como, a vat of secrets, stacked through the generations like our great-aunt’s lace doilies in a breakfront. Indestructible. This town will never change. A non–Italian American once made the crack, “What’s at the bottom of Lake Como?” expecting a nefarious answer; instead the answer he got was “Fish.”

Mom and her nephew, Mauro, stand in the formal living room, the small room off the real living room. This is the room we never use, which has the Lladró Madonna illuminated under a ceiling pin light, two white upholstered chairs, a white sofa, and a white rug. The décor feels like you’re drowning in a milkshake floating with religious relics.

Mom gazes at Mauro, holding both of his hands ring-around-the-rosy-style as she studies him. My father flanks them, like a minister at a shotgun wedding. Angelo joins us, taking a seat on the white couch. Conor stands with me.

“This would never happen in an Irish family. We’d just pretend that all this wasn’t happening,” Conor whispers in my ear.

“Mom, can you believe it?” I ask.

“That sonofabitch-bastard brother of mine.” Mom shakes her head. “Just like him. He saved the best for last.”

The doorbell rings.

“Joe, can you get that?” my mother says through her veil of tears.

My father answers the door.

Detective Campovilla of the FBI enters the living room behind my father.

My mother looks at me wearily. “Does a bell ring at FBI headquarters in Philadelphia every time someone in my family dies?”

“Sorry to interrupt, Mrs. Baratta.”

“I’m sure you are. Connie, get the man a cup of coffee. Angelo? Mauro? Come with me. Joe, get your son in here. I don’t want to leave Giuseppina flailing without an attorney.”

“It’s fine, Ma,” I tell her, offering the detective a seat. “Detective Campovilla and I have kept in close touch.”

Mom covers her ears. “I don’t want to know about any of this!” She leaves the room.

“Would you like me to stay?” Angelo asks.

“You should go. We’ll talk later. I’d like to keep the veneer of my perfect character intact as long as possible.”

Angelo and Conor go.

“Good afternoon, Detective.” My brother enters the living room, closing the door behind him. Joe and I take a seat across from Detective Campovilla on the settee.

“How are you?” Campovilla asks.

“I’ll be better when you tell me where I stand with Uncle Louie’s business.”

“We have Mr. Gugliotti in custody. But we’ve had a difficult time tying him to the Elegant Gangster. We’d like you to wear a wire at the prison to help us close out the matter.”

I look at my brother.

“Is this necessary?” Joe asks.