If these dining room walls could talk, I bet they’d beg Alberto Visconti to shut up. Just like every Friday night, he sits next to me at the head of the table, one hand curled around his whiskey glass the other weighing down my thigh like an anchor. I once overheard a pool boy refer to him as Anecdote Alberto. As the head of the Devil’s Cove Cosa Nostra, I’ve heard him called a lot of things—capo, boss, Big Al—but Anecdote Alberto definitely seems to be the most fitting. It didn’t take me long to learn how to drown out his stories, but still, the baritone of his voice vibrates against my
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