The label wasn't written on the front like the others, but along the side. I stared at the envelope, hoping stupidly that I had read it wrong.
This wasn't recent. The paper was worn, so whatever was inside had been opened, considered, then buried again. I swallowed, suddenly aware of how quiet the room was, and slid my finger beneath the seal.
I lowered myself into the chair without realizing my knees had given way.
There was no confession here, no apology or attempt to justify what had been done.
Dates and names were recorded in the impersonal style of men who demanded submission rather than pardon. My father's name appeared with the De Laurentiis seal and the Cosa Nostra code underneath it years ago, following an almost catastrophic betrayal. Under one condition, an unfeasi
