Chapter 8
Vito couldn’t sleep, even though he’d tried—for hours. Those hours passed like days, and Vito realized, in retrospect, that he had experienced brief, tortured patches of sleep, because he recalled dream imagery that made him anxious—empty arms, darkness, a sense of foreboding coming from just a telephone.
He felt crowded by the girls, one lying too close and making him hot, the other horizontal at the foot of the bed, so he had nowhere to put his legs. Neither of them were having any trouble sleeping, though. They snored like truck drivers.
Sighing, he got up and went into the kitchen, turning on only the dim light over the stove. He pulled the cork from a bottle of Chianti that was on the counter, half finished, and poured himself a glass.
He looked around the kitchen and th
