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home. Kathy had parked the station wagon right in the middle of the driveway, so he had to park in front of the house. She’d left a night-light on, more to discourage prowlers than to help him find his way in the dark. The house felt empty. He remembered that Peter wasn’t home but looked into his bedroom anyway. The sleepy old dog, Woof, head resting on the pillow, grunted softly without really waking up. The other dogs were flopped out around the house. They all knew his step; no one had to go out.
    Nick shared his glass of milk with the oldest of the family cats, a gray part-Siamese with pea green eyes. She sipped carefully, then washed herself and disappeared. No one really knew where she slept. She was the mysterious one of the group.
    Kathy wasn’t good at faking sleep. She breathed too regularly. He touched her foot lightly, shook it gently, and she didn’t respond. Nick took a hot shower, then looked in the mirror when he brushed his teeth. He wondered what Laura saw when she looked at him.
    He remembered the first time he knew he loved Laura Santalvo. He was eight; at his father’s funeral. She and Richie listened when he told them he and his mother were moving in with his O’Hara uncle. Sure, he’d see them. He’d come back and visit.
    Richie, heavyset with a wise-guy face even at nine, put his arm around Laura’s shoulder and gave a squeeze.
    “Don’t worry about Laura, Nicky. I’ll take good care of her.”
    Laura stepped down on Richie’s foot, so hard he doubled over in pain and shock.
    “Like hell you will.”
    Then, she took Nick’s face in both her hands and kissed him full on the lips. She was eight years old, but the kiss was a helluva lot older. Nick didn’t get kissed like that again for a very long time.
    He turned out the light and started for Peter’s room for an automatic last check, then remembered. He felt his wife’s body tighten slightly when he got into bed beside her. When he touched her shoulder anyway, then the back of her neck, she pulled further away.
    Nick rolled over on his side. The hell with it.

CHAPTER 8
    P ETER WATCHED WITH ADMIRATION as the muscular, sweating men carried the massive platform on which the statue of San Gennaro, patron saint of Naples, had been placed, amid flower arrangements and candles and an assortment of holy relics and items. They moved slowly through the crowd, not stopping, just slowing a bit, as people pushed forward to slip five-and ten-and even twenty-dollar bills into whatever crevice they could find. If a bill dropped underfoot, it was a given that it would not be pocketed, but picked up and placed with the saint.
    Sonny had told him that San Gennaro had been a humble priest in Naples who doubted his ability to turn wine and bread into the blood and flesh of the Saviour during mass—until one day a miracle took place, and he never doubted again. Even though most of the people at the celebration weren’t Neapolitans, many not even of Italian heritage, the event had become a New York tradition of which few in attendance knew the origin.
    Everything involved in the festival was traditional. Every single booth lining the way of the procession had been contracted for months ago. No one could sell so much as a hot dog without paying for the right to do so. All the food, in all the booths—the meats and pastas, breads, cakes, cheeses, wines—came from designated suppliers. Each supplier paid a fee for exclusive rights. The San Gennaro generated a great deal of money; a small amount went to the charity for which it was conducted. A great deal went into other hands that had nothing to do with charity. But what the hell. The wine was good. The food was excellent and the air was filled with marvelous fragrances and the noise of happy people.
    Tourists ate too much, walked around a little, then ate some more. Their kids were splattered with sauce, their mouths rimmed in red, and though their bellies ached they pleaded for the original,