He's in the center of the lobby, tiled marble floor, cup of espresso in one hand, cigarette in the other, owner of the restaurant in his chef whites, by some strange coincidence I know yet another of his children, a neighbor who lived beneath me in my old apartment on 17th Avenue, he reminisces about her, her secret marriage to Santino which if he'd known about he'd have stopped, he pauses for a moment to reflect before exclaiming loudly:
"I should have drowned them all when they was born. All four of them."
He pauses a moment, sips his espresso, takes a drag on his cigarette, then adds:
"Their mother too."