Excerpt from Saint of the Narrows Street by William Boyle, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

At the table now, Risa gets Fab situated in his high chair and then sets Giulia up with a plate of cutlets and some semolina bread. To drink, there's wine or water and not much else. Giulia opts for wine, a tall glass filled to the brim. Risa says that the wine's from their former neighbor a few doors down, Mr. Evangelista, who died recently. She says it's strange to have a bunch of wine bottled by a man who's dead. Giulia agrees but drinks it down. "It's good," she says. "And the cutlets are great. They remind me of Mama's."

Risa thinks of their mother's kitchen, oil bubbling on the stove, Mama's hands covered in breadcrumbs and eggs, the apron she always wore. She remembers piping hot cutlets on pink plates. Savoring each bite. She remembers helping Mama. Learning. She has was always been interested in the ways of the kitchen. She kept all their mother's and grandmothers' recipes on index cards in a tin. Things were easier when they were kids at that table with their pink plates. She didn't yet know the sad terrors of the world.

Giulia reaches out and tweaks Fab's cheek. He smiles at her, one of those sweet baby smiles. The way he beams with his whole face. His eyes. Such light.

Risa picks up a napkin from the table. She looks at Giulia and then at Fab and then looks away, at the wall, at the kitchen, at anything other than them. She's on the verge of tears again. She uses the napkin to blot her eyes. She's turned to the side, faced away from Fab, as if she doesn't want him to see her.

"It's okay," Giulia says. "You let it out." She gets up and comes over to Risa, squatting at her side and placing a hand on her back, palm flat against her spine at first, eventually falling into a rhythm of patting her gently.

Risa can smell the cutlets all over herself. "I don't know if I'm ready to talk about it," she says.

Giulia looks like she wants to say something, but she hesitates and holds back. "Whenever you want to tell me what that bastard did, I'm here," she says.

Risa leans into Giulia, putting her head on her shoulder, sobbing steadily now.

Giulia pulls her into another hug. Fab's watching them, smooshing his thumbs against the tray on his high chair, delighted. "We're gonna take care of each other," Giulia says. "That's what we're gonna do."



As a girl, Risa had daydreamed about being a nun, about helping the sick and poor, about finding real meaning in life. She imagined herself dabbing the heads of dying patients with a wet washcloth, saying not to worry because God was with them. She imagined everyone calling her Sister Risa, which had a nice ring to it. She imagined keeping all her thoughts about God and the world in a journal, all her doubts and fears, everything beautiful and frightening, and she'd write it all down by candlelight in this simple marble notebook with a freshly sharpened pencil. She could have lived a "meditative life of purpose," as her favorite nun ever, Sister Antonella from Our Lady of Perpetual Surrender, would have said.

That dream faded. After high school at Lafayette, where she'd gone instead of Bishop Kearney because her folks couldn't afford the tuition there, she'd attended Staten Island College, getting mostly Bs and Cs in general studies classes, but decided not to go back for her junior year and to forget about her degree. After dropping out, she worked at Villabate Alba for a few years—her father was friends with the owner. It was tough, especially on Sundays and holidays, early mornings and very long lines, people anxious for their cannoli and sfogliatelle and every other beautiful thing behind the gleaming glass in those display cases. If she'd been smarter sooner, perhaps she could have gone down a different road—nurse, social worker, law clerk—but she'd allowed herself to drift until she met Sav that day on the beach. She'd had boyfriends before him but nothing serious, so she didn't know the pitfalls and the signs of serious trouble. She liked that he liked her. If she'd never met Sav, she's not sure where she'd be—maybe still living at home with her folks—but she'd be better off in many ways.

Excerpted from Saint of the Narrows Street by William Boyle. Copyright © 2025 by William Boyle. Excerpted by permission of Soho Crime. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.