"You need to eat something before we go in," I told him.
Dom looked at me from the passenger seat. "I ate lunch."
"That was six hours ago and you're about to walk into a Rossi Sunday dinner. You will be fed whether you want to be or not. Going in hungry means you say yes to everything and you won't be able to move for three days."
"I've attended business dinners with heads of state," he said.
"Good for you. This is different."
He looked at the house. It was a narrow brownstone in a quiet Brooklyn street, and even from the car you could hear it — voices, music, someone laughing too loud. Light in every window. The smell of garlic and tomato already making it through the closed car windows.
"Different how?" he said.
"They're going to ask you things you won't be expecting," I said. "My
