The package from Palermo arrived on a Tuesday, which was unfortunate because Tuesday was pizza night and Sal Contini had already bought the dough.
It was a wooden box, roughly cut, wrapped in brown paper and bound with twine. There was no return address, only his name written in a handwriting he recognized but did not want to recognize: his grandfather Don Ciccio's hand, which had been dead for six weeks. Sal opened the box in the back room of his pizzeria, behind the oven where the dough rose and the flour dust hung in the air like a...
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