Chapter 11
11
SAMANTHA
T he funeral is held on a rainy Wednesday afternoon. Braiden decides that one service will serve for both Birte and Grace. They lived together on the third floor of Thornfield. It only seems right they should be remembered together now.
We mourners only fill one pew in St. Columba’s. Braiden and Fairfax wear jet black suits. I don’t own a dress that’s black. My work clothes are all tailored pants and blazers, and my skirts are all riots of flowers. I decide it’s more respectful to wear trousers, like the men.
Aiofe wears a simple black frock with one row of ruffles above her knee. Her hair is pulled back with a matching ribbon. Her face looks as pale as the milk tea Braiden pours for her every morning. Her eyes are red from crying, her nose chapped from blowing.
Rory O’Hare and three of his enforcers occupy the bench behind us. I’m not sure any one of them could have picked the first Mrs. Kelly out of a police-mandated line-up, but the men are there as protection. They wear black and keep their mouths shut. No one could ask for more.
That’s it. No one else remembers Birte or Grace.
Braiden could have ordered Fishtown Boys to occupy more pews. He could have gone overboard completely and required wives and children to fill the church. But in the end, he decided to tell no more lies about the girl he married in Ireland, about the nursemaid he brought to the States.
Father Regis conducts the mass. He met both women, so he manages to say something personal in his short homily. He remembers Birte’s piano playing and her simple devotion to her faith. He mentions Grace’s attentiveness to Birte.
After the final prayers for the dead, Father Regis stops in front of our pew. He rests a hand on poor Aiofe’s head and prays out loud that God will comfort her. If he condemns my dry eyes and Braiden’s and Fairfax’s, he doesn’t say a word.
Father Regis heads back to the vestry. O’Hare and his men fill the aisle, a black-clad wall between us and the outside world. We four mourners follow behind, quiet shadows beneath the dark stained glass.
Antonio Russo is waiting on the front steps of the church, immaculate as ever in Armani. Three of his goons stand behind him, their brightly colored casual shirts obscene in the spring sunshine.
Braiden shoulders past a bristling Rory O’Hare. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he growls.
Russo’s eyes open wide in pretended surprise. “I believe you once told me that Mother Church keeps an open door.”
“You’re not inside the door,” Braiden points out. “You’re lurking on the steps.”
“ Lurk is such an unpleasant word.”
“What do you want, Russo?”
“I came to offer condolences to my sweet Giovanna.”
Braiden’s shoulders seem to swell beneath his jacket. “She doesn’t need your lies.”
Russo turns to me. “Is that the way of these Irish dogs, Giovanna? They will not let you seek the comfort of your people?”
It’s bait, and I know it, but I can’t keep from biting back. “I don’t need your comfort, Russo.”
He looks hurt. “There was a time when you called me Antonio.”
I called him Don Antonio. But that was before he murdered my cousin. Before he threatened to lock me into a marriage I never desired.
“How did you even know we’d be here?” I ask, not giving him the satisfaction of calling him anything.
“I was saddened, of course, when I read about your tragedy. On the front page of the paper, no less. I paid—generously—for a mass to be said in Birte Kelly’s name. So Father Regis was only too willing to tell me when a funeral was scheduled.”
I shouldn’t be so shocked to hear the Catholic Church was bribed. Before I manage an answer, Braiden tosses an order over his shoulder. “Rory. Get Aiofe to the car.”
But Russo intercepts O’Hare before he gets the child clear. The Mafia capo kneels on the top stone step, plucking the seam of his virgin wool slacks. At Aiofe’s eye level, he says, “I am sorry you have lost your auntie.”
Aiofe looks to Braiden for reassurance, but whatever she sees there makes her more afraid. She tries to ease behind O’Hare, hiding her face against him.
“Leave the girl alone,” Braiden says, his voice deadly still. But he can’t spill the blood he wants to shed. Not here, in broad daylight. Not in front of Aiofe, who has already seen too much blood on church steps.
Russo reaches out and wraps one of Aiofe’s curls around his finger. “Such pretty hair,” he says. “Like your auntie, I hear.”
Braiden’s hands knots into fists. I want to slap the sneer from Russo’s face. But neither of us does a thing because Aiofe’s already terrified.
“Do not cry, principessa ,” Russo says. “You can visit the grave of your auntie. You can ask her to watch over you. There is only a small chance that grave will be unsafe.”
“Rory!” Braiden barks, his Captain’s voice off its leash.
O’Hare scoops Aiofe up like she’s a pile of laundry. The side of his hand crashes hard on Russo’s wrist, forcing Aiofe’s hair out of the intruder’s grasp. O’Hare’s long legs manage the steps two at a time, and he shifts Aiofe’s head to his shoulder as he carries her to the replacement Bentley that arrived only this morning. Fairfax hurries after with one apologetic glance, as if he knows he can be of no concrete assistance with Russo on the prowl.
Russo’s men gather close behind him. He shakes his wrist, channeling all his hatred into a glare at Braiden.
“Don’t waste your time,” Braiden says. “Birte will be buried in her family plot, in County Cork.”
This is the first I’ve heard of the plan. But under the circumstances, I approve.
Russo turns his bullying to me. “Will Kelly send you away as easily, Giovanna? After he tires of your figa ?”
Braiden bulls forward. “Say one more word to my wife?—”
“But that is the problem, is it not? My Giovanna is not your wife. Not after you strong-armed your so-called priest to do your wedding.”
For one blind moment, I think Father Brennan has betrayed us. I wonder how Russo threatened him. I wonder how long Father Brennan held out before he caved.
But then I realize Russo has never spoken with the defrocked priest. He learned the truth from someone even closer to Braiden.
Braiden draws the same conclusion. “Don’t believe everything my brother tells you.” He remembers to use the present tense, because no one else on these steps knows Madden is dead.
“Your brother?” Russo sounds politely confused.
“Do you suck Madden’s cock?” Braiden demands. “Or only let him fuck your guinea arse?”
Russo’s men surge forward, all three moving as one. Russo, though, holds up a commanding hand. He clicks his tongue, tsking with a mournful look at me. “Poor Giovanna. Does he kiss you with that mouth? After saying such things on the steps of a church?”
I clutch Braiden’s arm, because nothing good will come of trading more insults. “Come on,” I urge him. “Aiofe needs us.”
“Do not be in such a rush, Giovanna. When I heard you would be at church today, I invited some friends to join us.”
“Let’s go ,” I say to Braiden, because there’s no one in the world Russo could have invited that I want to see.
But before we can move toward the Bentley, half a dozen cars pull up to the curb in front of St. Columba’s. People tumble out the doors, most brandishing phones. A satellite truck parks across the street as someone shoves a microphone into my face.
“Samantha!” people shout. “Sam! Look this way! Turn here!”
And then the questions start.
“How long did you and Braiden plan your fake marriage?”
“No comment,” I say, just the way Sonja trained me.
“Was your fake marriage a tax dodge?”
“No comment,” I say.
“Was Birte Kelly pushed?”
“What the actual fuck?” I can’t keep myself from shouting.
Of course they jump all over that. Suddenly, everyone has questions about Birte—when Braiden and I locked her in a basement, how long she was our sex slave, how much of her fortune we stole. There aren’t enough “no comments” in the universe to answer the absurdities.
The instant we were swarmed, Russo stepped away. Now, he stands at the base of the steps, ignored by the media circus howling for my blood. I don’t know how many of the questions spring from the paparazzi’s imagination, and how many he planted before he arrived to torture us.
“Smile, Sam,” someone shouts. “Let’s see that killer grin.”
Braiden finally gets his arm around me, and I huddle next to his side like I’m taking refuge from a rainstorm. O’Hare’s men close behind us, and we belatedly make our way to the car.
I end up in the back seat of the Bentley; Braiden takes the front. Aiofe is sandwiched between Fairfax and me. She buries her face in my blouse as O’Hare starts the slow process of navigating through the crowd without crushing anyone.
I cover Aiofe’s head with my hands, doing my best to shield her. Phones are slapped against the car windows, and shouted questions vibrate through the glass.
“You’re fine,” I tell Aiofe. “You’re absolutely fine. You’re safe. You’re absolutely safe.” I say it over and over, until the words have lost their meaning. And I know, as O’Hare finally pulls free from the church, I don’t believe a thing I’m saying.
I look back as we finally put some distance between us and the chaos. Russo is a black vulture, feeding on the crowd. And I wonder how many more times I can escape the mob’s vicious hunger.