“You’re in a mood tonight!” Greta says, trying to break the tension. “Nobody is coming to get us.”

“We’re moving toward legitimacy all the time,” I say to Papa. “Someday soon we’ll be like the Kennedys or the Rockefellers—all our criminal history swept under the rug of our licit wealth.”

Papa isn’t placated. His fingers clench around my hand, squeezing hard. Harder than I thought he could.

“Legitimate maybe, but never soft,” he tells me. “Promise me, Sebastian.”

“I promise,” I say, not entirely sure what I’m agreeing to.

“What do we do when we’re hit?” he demands.

“For every blow, return three more,” I recite. “Our fury overwhelms their greed.”

“That’s right.” Papa nods.

Greta presses her lips together. She doesn’t like this kind of talk. Especially not at the dinner table.

“Is there dessert?” I say, to change the subject.

“I have sorbet downstairs,” Greta says.

She starts to gather the plates, and I help her, even though I know it will annoy her. She tsks at me and says, “Stay here!” I help her carry the dishes down anyway, noticing that my father never touched his food.

“Has he been like that all week?” I ask her, once we’re out of earshot down the stairs.

“Gloomy?” she says. “Paranoid? Yes.”

“What’s the problem?”

Greta shakes her head, not wanting to talk about my father behind his back. She’s been unwaveringly loyal to him all my life.

“It’s hard having you all gone,” she says. And then, after a moment, she admits, “He’s forgetting things.”

My father is only seventy-one. Not so very old. Time is cutting away at him faster and faster, but he could live twenty years longer. Maybe more. He’s always been so sharp. Even if he’s forgetful compared to his old self, I can’t help but think that’s still better than most people.

“Does he need to see Doctor Bloom again?” I ask Greta.

“I give him the supplements the doctor says to give him. I follow the diet. I try to make him walk on the treadmill downstairs, but he says he’s not a hamster on a wheel.”

“You could go for a walk outside together,” I say.

“Well . . .” Greta sighs. “That’s the paranoia. He thinks people are trying to kill him. He brings up old . . . old rivals who aren’t alive anymore. Bruno Salvatore. Viktor Adamski. Kolya Kristoff.”

I cast a quick glance over at her. We never talk to Greta about our business—or at least, I thought we never did. The fact that she knows those names means that my father has been telling her things. Maybe a lot of things.

I study her face, wondering if she’d rather not know. Of course she’s always been aware of who my father is and what he does. But that’s different from hearing details. If Papa is losing his inhibitions, he might be spilling all kinds of secrets.

Seeing my concern, Greta says, “It’s alright, Seb. You know that anything your father says will die with me.”

“Of course,” I say. “I just don’t want you to be . . . upset.”

Greta snorts, stacking the dishes in the sink and running hot, soapy water over them. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she says. “I’m no wide-eyed girl. I’m a lot older than you, boy! I’ve seen things that would make your hair curl.” She reaches up to touch my cheek, smiling a little. “More than it already does.”

I relax a little. Greta is family. She’ll take care of Papa no matter what happens. No matter what he says.

She dishes lemon sorbet into three small bowls, and I help her carry it back up to the roof. In our absence, Papa has gotten out the chessboard. I’m no match for him at chess—only Nero can beat him. Still, I take my place opposite, playing black.

Papa taught us all how to play, from Dante down to Aida. Dante is a competent player, Nero is near unbeatable. Aida has flashes of brilliance, undermined by her impatience. She either wins or loses spectacularly.

I was always too fidgety to want to play much. I’d rather be doing something physical versus sitting and thinking. But I learned the rules and the basic strategies, just like my siblings.

Papa starts with The King’s Gambit, one of his favorite opening moves. It’s a risky opening move for white, but it was fashionable in the romantic era of chess, which my father believes was the best era—full of dramatic and aggressive forays, before the time of computer analysis, which favors a more defensive technique.

I accept the gambit, and Papa develops his bishop to an active square.

I put him in check, forcing him to move his king, so that he won’t be able to castle later.

Papa nods, glad to see I haven’t entirely forgotten what I’m doing.

“Chess makes men wiser and clear-sighted,” he says. “Do you know who said that?”

I shake my head. “Some grand master?” I guess.

“No,” Papa chuckles. “Vladimir Putin.”

Papa moves his king, menacing mine in turn. I try to drive away his bishop so he can’t attack me diagonally.

We each take several pawns from each other as we skirmish, but no major pieces yet.

Papa sets up a tricky offensive where he simultaneously traps my queen and tries to attack my knight. I defend by moving my knight back to a square that protects my queen, but I’ve lost positioning on the board, and Papa is advancing.

I manage to take one of his rooks, and then his bishop. For a moment I think Papa was only sacrificing his pieces—I must have missed a threat coming from another direction. But then I see that Papa is flustered, and I realize he made a mistake.

I don’t usually last this long against my father. I’m struck by the uncomfortable thought that I might actually beat him. I don’t want that to happen. It would be embarrassing for us both. It would mean something that I don’t want to admit.

On the other hand, if I let him win, he’ll know. And that would be even more insulting.

Papa has to scramble to recover. He attacks hard, taking a knight and a bishop in return. In the end he wins, but only at the expense of sacrificing his queen. It was close—much closer than usual.

“Got me again,” I say.

I think we’re both relieved.

It’s a beautiful evening. The stars are coming out in a pale violet sky. The air is warm, with a hint of breeze up here on the rooftop. The scent of the fox grapes is rich and sweet.

I ought to be happy. But my stomach twists as I think that some night like this, I’ll play my last game of chess with my father. And I won’t know at the time that it’s the last game.

“I would like to play like Rudolf Spielmann,” Papa says. “He always said, ‘Play the opening like a book, the middlegame like a magician, and the endgame like a machine.’ ”

I puzzle that over in my head, thinking about what it means.

“That’s true of any strategy,” Papa says, his dark eyes fixed on mine. “Remember that, Seb. Follow the rules at first. Confound your opponent in the middle. And in the end, finish him without hesitation, without mercy, and without thought.”

“Sure, Papa,” I say.