All Chapters of Too Late To Love Me : Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

"Say it to me."Laurent sat at the kitchen table with a blanket over his knees and Anne's hand on his shoulder. It was nine on Thursday night. Upstairs, the children slept in the study, on the sofa bed Anne had made up.Mira stood at the counter with a glass of water she wasn't drinking."Papa.""Practice. Say it to me first, so it isn't the first time." He pushed a chair out with his foot. "You can't walk into that room and say it cold."She sat. She put both hands around the glass."I was unhappy in that house."It came out thin. It sounded like somebody reading a recipe."Again," Laurent said."I was unhappy in that house.""Again. Your grandmother practiced in the pantry with the door shut. She said it to a sack of flour. The flour never argued.""Papa.""Again. Like you mean it."Mira's jaw tightened. She looked at the table. At the knife marks in the old wood where she had done her homework at eight."I was unhappy in that house," she said, and her hands shook, and she let them.

"The meeting will come to order."Grassi stood at the head of the great hall of the Russo Group. It was noon on Friday. Four hundred shareholders had come. Some in good suits, some in work clothes, one old woman in a church hat. They filled every chair and stood along the walls.Her phone buzzed in her lap before the doors closed.[That car last night was mine. After the break-in, an officer stays on Mr. Russo until this is over. Okafor.]Mira let out a breath and put the phone away.Mira sat in the third row between her mother and Rosa. At the back wall, on his cane, stood her father. Beside him, in a travel-creased coat with his hair standing up, stood Julien. She had felt both of them arrive.Dante sat alone in the front row. He hadn't looked back once.Vittorio sat at the long table on the platform with Lang at his shoulder and Ferri on his right. He looked rested, like a man who was sure."The matter before the meeting is two motions," Grassi said. "The first, to remove Mr. Dante

"Seventy-three to forty-nine," Vittorio said.He stood in the hall of the villa, coat still on, stick in his hand. Nobody answered. It was seven on Friday evening. The temporary housekeeper had gone home and left a casserole under foil. The lamp in the dining room was lit.He took off his gloves, finger by finger, and laid them on the hall table.He had known the numbers by Wednesday. He had counted forty-nine and thought, there is no eight percent in this city that is not afraid of me. He had not counted a girl. He had never once counted the girl.He walked into the dining room.The long table had been wiped. The chairs stood square.He sat down at the head of the table.He didn't do anything.On the wall across from him hung a painting. Matteo Russo at fifty, in a dark suit, one hand on the back of a chair. A strong, handsome, stubborn face. The eyes looked a little past the painter's shoulder, at something outside the frame.Vittorio had looked at that painting every night for fort

"He's not late, sweetheart. You're early."Anne didn't turn from the stove. It was ten to six on Sunday evening. Mira stood at the front window with her arms crossed, watching the street."I'm not early. I'm standing here.""For ten minutes.""I'm checking the potatoes.""The potatoes are in the oven." Anne lifted a lid and let the steam out. "Your father has been ready since four. He ironed his good shirt, put it on, took it off, and put it on again.""I heard that," Laurent called from the dining room.At two minutes to six, a car door shut outside. Mira's arms dropped. She folded them again.Dante came up the path with a ten-kilo sack of flour on one shoulder, a paper tag hanging from the string. He climbed the porch steps and stopped on the mat, breathing hard. He did not knock.Mira opened the door."Mrs. Kowalski sent this," he said. "She said, tell your Russo to carry the sacks." He shifted the weight. "I carried it from the car. Is that the right way to come in?"Behind her, L

"Both of you," Laurent said. "Coats. Come with me." He stood at the kitchen door with one hand on his cane and the other holding a ring of old keys. It was half past five on Monday. Dante had come straight from the Russo tower. Mira had come from the bakery with flour up her forearms. Neither of them had expected anything but supper. Her phone buzzed in her apron pocket. She read it, and then she read it aloud, because that was Dante's rule and she had decided it was hers too. "Okafor. The judge revoked your father's bail this morning. Contact with a witness. On tape." She looked up. "He's in county." Dante let out a long breath. "Thank you for telling me first." "I'm trying your rule." "You're better at it than I am." "Don't flatter me. Coats." Laurent led them across the yard to the garage behind the house, the old one with the sagging side door that Mira had never been allowed into. He worked a key into the lock, and the door groaned open on a smell of dust, old flou