The Panuzio Home
East Lake, Monday, 17 October, 6:21 a.m.
Johnny yawned. He placed his briefcase on a kitchen chair, moved to the stove, turned on a unit. He grabbed the tole-painted teapot that he used to heat water for coffee, slogged to the sink. As the pot filled, he looked through the window. It was dark, three quarters of an hour to sunrise. He sighed. The pot felt heavier than usual; he felt worn. It was the 29th day since the accident; the 26th since the announcement of the murder of Aaron Williams; three and a half weeks since his last workout.
Through the floor, Johnny could hear the sound of Rocco scraping at the old mortar. Earlier he’d heard Jason descend for breakfast. His son had returned to the attic before Johnny had come down. Again Johnny sighed. Even Dog Corleone had
