Chapter 7
CARMELA
M y mama’s funeral is today, and although I know it needs to happen and that everyone says it will provide closure, every step I take as I get ready feels like wading through deep mud.
The only small positive note is that father was deemed well enough to move from the hospital to a convalescent home, and I hold onto the hope that he might soon be well enough to come home.
I go through the motions of getting ready. I’ve barely looked at myself in the mirror since she passed. When I do, all I see are dark circles under my eyes and hair that reminds me of her.
None of this seems real. It’s easy to imagine her downstairs in the kitchen sipping her coffee at the dining table, maybe chatting to Jessica or my father.
Only I know when I go downstairs today, she won’t be there.
She won’t be there ever again.
Worse, in her place will be Helena with her shark smile and overly made-up face.
A knock sounds at my door as I finish drying my hair. Brigida enters at my call, bearing a tray laden with breakfast food and a cappuccino.
“I brought your breakfast, Carmela,” she says.
I haven’t eaten breakfast downstairs since Helena turned up. I can’t. If I don’t go into the dining room, I might be able to delude myself into thinking this isn’t real.
We’re burying my mother today. I don’t think delusions are an option anymore.
“Thank you,” I say, summoning a smile.
Her eyes linger on me for a moment before she quietly leaves.
No sooner has she gone than Jessica arrives, already dressed in black.
It doesn’t suit her. The fluffy pink slippers on her feet provide relief from the sobriety.
“Ettore is here early,” she says. “At least the witch has returned to her home to collect her ungodly offspring for the funeral.” She rolls her eyes. “Now Ettore is in Papa’s office, snooping.”
My lips tighten. I hate Helena, aka the witch. Her presence adds another reason for Ettore to come around under the pretext of ensuring we’re all okay.
It feels like our home has been invaded.
“Papa did mention that Ettore would accompany us to the service, where we would meet him,” I say, making light of it because this is not the time or place.
Nor is it my decision when or how often Ettore enters our home.
He is my father’s closest associate. I don’t have to trust Ettore; I just have to trust my father’s trust in him.
At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
I hold out my arms. She comes over and we hug. I take a deep breath, fighting the stinging at the back of my eyes—I will cry enough later. “I can’t believe you’re taller than me.”
She snickers. “I can’t believe you’re still so short.”
The brief moment of shared humor does not linger before the melancholy sweeps me under.
“I’m not crying,” she says.
“I’m not crying either,” I reply.
We are both lying. It’s a stupid game we play, trying to convince ourselves we’re doing better than we are.
She steps back, swiping the tears from her cheeks. I do the same before heading over to the small table before the window where Brigida put the tray. I sip my cappuccino. Then I deliberately dunk the biscotti in: a heathen act, according to my mother.
God, I miss her.
“She hated you dunking biscotti,” Jessica points out.
“I know.” Another sad smirk makes its way across my lips. “I only did it when she couldn’t see.”
“Well, that’s all the time now.”
I hear the raw edge to her voice. The biscotti feels heavy as it hits my stomach. I can’t remember what I ate yesterday.
Today, we’ll have closure. At least, I hope so.
“It’s going to be a shitty day,” she says.
I don’t bother to pull her up on her cursing. “It is,” I agree.
“But at least Dante will be there,” she adds. “Maybe after, Papa will finally announce your betrothal, and we can have something to look forward to—and, like, screw college. Marry him already. Then he could stay here, and Ettore and his sister wouldn’t have an excuse to snoop around.”
We share a look.
She doesn’t like Ettore or Helena any better than I do but is far less subtle about it. We are vulnerable here despite the army of soldiers patrolling the grounds. Ettore is in a position of authority, and through him, so is his sister. Better if we don’t do anything to antagonize them.
“Maybe,” I say. Only, something feels off whenever I try to envision a future with Dante. Since that terrible day when everything changed, I’ve seen him exactly once as we crossed paths when visiting my father at the hospital.
He was polite and asked me how I was doing.
I nodded and said, “Not great.”
Then, one of the men had called him away, and that was that.
I wash my hands and then dress while my sister stares out the window at the pool.
I wonder if she’s thinking about the barracuda.
“He’s making himself awfully comfortable,” she says as I slip my feet into my shoes.
I still. She wasn’t thinking about the barracuda, then. Instinctively, I know she is talking about Ettore.
She turns to face me. “I’ve seen how he looks at you when you’re not watching.”
I inhale sharply and shake my head. “Not now. Not today.”
“Predatory,” she continues. “Like his sister and Cosmo. Predatory runs strong in that family. He wants you. Don’t wait too long to marry Dante. Please, Carmela, I have a terrible feeling about this.”
My sister has long been prone to dramatics.
I swear she has drama flowing through her veins instead of blood.
Yet her eyes, pooling with tears, undo me today.
I go over and hug her again. I’m older, and I need to be the one to allay her fears.
“I won’t. Don’t worry about it. I promise it will be okay. ”
She still looks uncertain, but she nods and leaves to finish getting ready.
I head downstairs, reaching the bottom just as Ettore saunters out of my father’s study with an envelope in his hand.
He’s a little younger than my father. I’d guess he’s in his early forties, always clean-shaven and immaculately dressed.
He’s been married twice. The first one died due to an illness.
There was some kind of scandal surrounding the second one.
He was barely married and divorced again, and wife number two was packed off to another state.
Divorce is frowned upon in our world. I can only imagine something exceptional led to the breakup.
He smiles, his gaze sweeping down my length before returning to meet my eyes. It makes me deeply uncomfortable in light of my sister’s recent comment.
“Your father asked me to bring this.” He indicates the envelope.
“Of course.” My smile is weak. “Thank you.” I wish my father would ask me to get things for him. I wouldn’t mind. But I suppose I wouldn’t even know what I was looking for. “We’re very grateful you came to collect us.”
“My pleasure,” he says just as Jessica comes clomping noisily down the stairs.
She slips her arm through mine, sending a scowl Ettore’s way.
His eyes flick toward her briefly before he turns away and checks his watch. “Time we were leaving.”
DANTE
Monica Accardi’s funeral is being held today, having been delayed until Cedro was well enough to attend.
He’s only just been moved out of the hospital and into a convalescent care facility where they can provide for his needs.
But he’s still got months of therapy and rehabilitation to look forward to.
He’s mentally defeated. Questions are being quietly raised about whether he’s fit to lead the family now or ever again. In the wake of the attack, there has been fallout. A Russian splinter group has claimed responsibility and has subsequently been denounced by the main Russian outfit here.
On the surface, the family continues to operate, albeit in a state of heightened risk.
Yet a different storm is brewing underneath as the major players vie for dominance.
Ettore Gallo, as underboss, has been manning the fort, including capturing the men responsible, who were summarily executed.
All very neat and tidy, and all too reminiscent of my Uncle Stephano’s death.
A cookie cutter play. Then, just like this time, Ettore stepped in and brought the culprits in for justice.
It’s how he became the underboss, taking my late uncle’s place.
The possibility that Ettore played any role in killing my uncle to garner himself the position makes me deeply uneasy, and even more so in light of recent events.
Leon certainly suspects Ettore had a hand in it still.
I want to believe this is merely the random design of the universe. But I don’t. Looking back, I believe my father had suspicions about Ettore, although he never spoke openly about them to me.
The memory of losing my father is fresh in my mind today.
My mother is doing as well as can be expected, but whenever I speak to her, I sense how fragile she is.
Christian is coping in his unique way, which essentially involves violence.
He frequents the clubs and indulges in all that entails more often than I think is healthy.
I doubt he could pull back from the role our father slotted him into, even if I were to advise him to do so.
Me? I’m not the controlled put-together person I was although I still project that persona where anyone can see.
“Thank you for coming,” Cedro says. His eyes light up as he tracks my entry into the room.
It’s a well-appointed suite with a large bay window offering views of a manicured garden and a pond.
“We like the residents to think of this as a home from home as they’re recovering,” the facility manager told me when I came to make the arrangements for Cedro to be moved here, falling over herself to meet our every need, and clearly aware of exactly who he is.
The light in his eyes fades as rapidly as it arrives. He’s dressed in a black suit, clean-shaven, with his hair freshly trimmed even if his face is sunken and gray.
His daughters need him.
But when I look at him, I see a man who is already broken—one who is unable to provide for and protect them.