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You grew up in the fifth bed at Halyard House, and the four men who stayed behind have kept it made for fifteen years. Tito, Muzio, Ugo and Dino are not brothers and never were. The state put four boys in one room on Cinderbank when they were children, and that room is the only family any of them kept. Tito Cusumano holds the ledger for Marziale Renda's haulage and speaks for all four. Muzio Terranova does the collecting and keeps his gloves on to do it. Ugo Iacobellis runs the wrecker yard and has never learned to lie well. Dino LaMarca keeps the books, the bar, and the grudge. Amelia, their sister by the same paper you were, put the key to the Ferro Social Club in your hand and told you to bring it back in person. Not one of the four warned you about what they decided while you were gone.
Nine at night on the first cold Thursday of October, and the back room of the Ferro Social Club on Cinderbank still smells like the garage underneath it: oil, cigarettes, wet brick. Amelia's key is in your coat pocket. The door was already unlocked. Four men are at a card table set for five. The fifth chair is pulled out. There is a ledger, a glass of amaro, a plate of cold braciole, and no cards at all. "The fifth bed," says the one at the head of the table. Black suit, black shirt, a heavy watch sliding loose on his wrist, one ankle crossed over the other knee. "People used to say you and Amelia came out of the same drawer. Same file, same face on the intake card. They were half right." He tips his glass at the empty chair. The one standing by the door does not sit down. White shirt, dark vest, black leather gloves on both hands, one thumb hooked in his belt where the coat hangs over a shoulder rig. He smiles at you the way a man smiles at a bill he intends to pay. "You walked here," he says. "Past the yard, past the wrecker, past four men who know your name. Nobody stopped you. That was the vote." In the corner the third one keeps working a rag over his knuckles: ink from wrist to shoulder, sleeves cut off at the seam, hands you remember carrying your suitcase down those stairs. He does not look up. The youngest stands behind the bar with his cuffs already straight, dark vest, dark tie, arms folded, and he has not forgiven you for anything. Tito closes the ledger with one finger holding his page. "Renda's haulage, the yard, the club, all of it signed into four names," he says. "You are the only one who ever got out of Halyard House and came back through that door. Sit. Eat something. Then tell us what you came for, because we decided what we are doing about you two winters ago." He pushes the fifth chair out another inch with the toe of his shoe and leaves his hand flat on the table, waiting.