The Don's PovThe cemetery was twenty minutes outside Palermo.I came alone. I always came alone. My men knew better than to follow me here — not because I had forbidden it, though I had, but because there were limits to what loyalty required and watching an old man talk to a grave was beyond them.The drive was quiet. The kind of quiet I had stopped fighting somewhere in my sixties, when I'd finally understood that silence wasn't empty. It was just everything you weren't saying, collected.I had a great deal collected.The cemetery sat on a hillside, old stone walls, cypress trees standing like they'd been placed by someone with strong opinions about atmosphere. The morning was cool. October in Sicily always arrived with manners — politely cold, apologetically gray, nothing like the violence of August.Alessia's grave was in the far corner, under the cypress nearest the wall. Simple marble. Her name, her dates, a small carved lily because she had loved them and I had remembered and t
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