Chapter Twenty Seven
Scirocco was rolling his hands in the air. “Please. Everyone,” he beckoned.
The guests seated themselves around the dinner table where Irene played musical chairs, trying to avoid Angelo Roselli. She could count on having to endure his sweaty hand on her leg if they sat together. But the chubby man was quick and, anticipating where she was headed, maneuvered his bulk into the chair beside hers. He hardly got settled before he smiled into her face and squeezed her bare knee under the tablecloth.
The man on her left introduced himself. He was Steve Mosca, a distributor from Philadelphia. Irene hadn’t a clue about what he meant by distributor and wasn’t of a mind to find out. He appeared nice enough and they fell into easy conversation. He talked proudly of his family:
