That autumn evening in 1936, Luca’s words stopped both of us outside the iron gates of the Moretti estate.For twenty-eight days, every time Don Moretti abandoned us for Bianca Bellini, I had asked Luca to use his father's title instead of calling him Papa.I told myself I was teaching us both to stop depending on a man who did not choose us, but Luca was six.To him, every forced "Don Moretti" was another small loss. He usually paused before saying it, his mouth working around the title as though it hurt. Today there had been no pause.He looked up at the father he had waited for again and again and said, "Don Moretti, you should go." Then he tugged at my hand."Mom, let's go inside. The dinner is about to start."His small hand pulled mine toward the iron gates of the Moretti estate.Tonight was the Moretti succession dinner, the formal gathering where the Don presented his chosen heir before every capo and elder.Matteo had arranged it after missing Luca’s Father’s Night at school,
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