Chapter 52 I Owe You
I OWE YOU
Matteo
Rain pinstripes St. Dominic’s black cars and shines the marble steps like a warning. All of Manhattan turned out in suits and silence, every family that ever did business with the Rossis or Valentinos sending a man in a dark coat to stand shoulder to shoulder for Leo DeLuca.
Inside, the nave is a deep breath held too long.
Candles bend light around brass and grief.
I take the front pew with Alessandro to my right and our fathers one row behind, their profiles carved from the same old stone as the pillars.
Across the aisle, Ferraras, Valentinos, Mercurios, Solanos, men I’ve broken bread with and men I’ve threatened, all here because a good soldier took two bullets meant for me and for the woman I love.
Even the Morellos from La Spada Nera showed up.
Somehow, while I was gone, Ale managed to forge peace with the bastardi.
He hasn’t told me the details yet, but I know it cost us big.
Some wars aren’t worth fighting, he’d said.
And now, I couldn’t agree more, not when there are so many more important things in life.
Like our children, our wives—or future wives, in my case.
Father Anselmi’s voice draws me back to the present, speaking of service and steadiness.
Of a man who “stood a post so others could sleep.” It should be a cliché.
It isn’t. Leo’s mother, who must be nearing her eighties, cries into a handkerchief so fine it looks like smoke; his brother grips the pew so hard the tendons pop.
I keep my eyes forward and my hands folded because if I look at them too long I’ll put my fist through a pew and disgrace us all.
When the pallbearers move, I rise to shoulder a corner of the casket.
It is the one weight I am qualified to carry.
It feels heavier than it should, or maybe that is penance settling into my bones.
As we pass beneath the choir loft, the organ swells into “Be Not Afraid,” and somewhere behind me Serena’s voice slips and breaks.
I stare at the crucifix and think about the kitchen tile in County Down and how fast a life can empty from a room.
At the doors, the rain hits hard and honest. The casket slides into the hearse, and the lid thunks shut. Our fathers and uncles step forward for a nod that is nearly a bow. The heads of houses follow, one by one, paying respects the way our world understands: present, counted, and solemn.
After the procession, we circle back to the side lot. I wave off the line of men who want to shake my hand with heavy condolences and go straight for the long black limousine pulled under the elm. The back window is fogged with small handprints.
I knock twice and open the door.
Livia pops up like a jack-in-the-box, curls riotous around a ribbon Alessia tied there this morning.
“Papà,” she whispers, then seems to remember it is a quiet day and tucks the rest of the joy behind her teeth.
Cat sits beside her in a simple black dress and Noreen’s shawl, a gentler kind of armor.
Her eyes search my face and find too much.
“How was it?” she asks softly.
“Heavy.” I cradle Livia’s cheek with my knuckles, and she leans into it like a cat into the sun. “He deserved better and got our best. It still isn’t enough.”
She nods like she knew the answer before she asked. Livia offers me a folded paper. I open it to a stick soldier with a big smile and a gold star. LEO, she wrote in the wobble of almost-four. My throat closes.
“Can we give this to his mamma?” she asks.
“We will,” I promise. “She’ll keep it forever.”
Over Cat’s shoulder I catch a movement at the portico: my father, Nico, and my mother, Maisy.
They look like a painting I have known my whole life.
His jaw is iron; her eyes are a soft place he will never admit to needing.
They have been furious with me since the fake death.
They’ve earned it. I crook a finger in their direction.
“Are you sure?” Cat whispers.
We’re all still jetlagged and exhausted but my parents deserve this.
“They need to meet their girls,” I say, and I’m suddenly more terrified than I was in the quarry.
I step out, rain ticking my shoulders, and open the rear door wide. “Papà. Mom.”
My father stops three feet from the car, measuring rage against curiosity. My mother ignores both and slides right in on a cloud of expensively bottled gardenias.
She sits beside Livia and takes both her hands like treasure. “Hello, little cutie,” she says. “I’m your grammy Maisy.”
Livia blinks, then glances at me for confirmation. I nod. “Grammy,” she repeats, testing it. My mom melts so fast I almost miss the shift.
My father clears his throat outside the door. “Matteo,” he says in that tone that always made me stand straighter. “You let your mother in a car before me.” Then he grins, it’s faint but it’s there. “Smart boy.”
“Get in or get wet, Nico,” my mother says without looking back.
He gets in. The leather creaks ominously.
His gaze lands first on Livia, then slides to Cat and sharpens. I can feel the old man’s mind moving, running security, running risk, running pride and insult and a lifetime of rules.
“Papà,” I murmur, “this is Caitríona McKenna. Cat. And this is Livia.” I say the name like a sacrament. “My daughter.”
His eyes flick to mine. For a heartbeat there is only calculation. Then Livia’s small fingers close around his index finger where it rests on his knee.
“Hi,” she says.
The ruthless mob boss forgets what his face is supposed to do. The lines drop. His mouth softens. It is not subtle. The first granddaughter makes widowers of wolves.
“Ciao, piccola,” he manages finally, so quiet I could fit the words in my palm. “Sono il tuo nonno.” I’m your grandfather.
She tries it out. “Nonno.”
His eyes go glass-bright and he blinks it away like dust. He reaches with his other hand and touches the ribbon in her hair as if it might bite.
My mother has already moved on to fussing.
“Why am I seeing my son for the first time in weeks at a church, and why has no one given me a key to the apartment, and look at this child, does she own one cardigan that is not chewing on its own buttons?” She kisses Livia’s forehead, then Cat’s cheek with equal ferocity.
“I would like to be very angry with your papà,” she tells Livia, “but I have no time because I need to plan a Sunday dinner and a wardrobe and possibly a wedding.”
“Mom,” I warn, and it comes out helpless.
Cat sits up straighter. She takes in my parents the way a professional takes in a room, then sets her shoulders and extends her hand to my father. “Signor Rossi,” she says, giving him the courtesy he has earned and none of the deference he might expect. “Thank you.”
He studies her offered hand, then takes it. Old-world formality meets the woman who dragged herself up off a blood-slick floor to save our daughter. “You kept my son and my granddaughter alive,” he murmurs. “For that I owe you the balance of my days.”
A long breath leaves Cat’s body. The wary line at the corner of her mouth eases a fraction. “I intend to keep doing that,” she replies. “With your son’s help, of course.”
“Good.” And that single syllable is a blessing.
The door opens again. Leo’s mother stands there with a tissue crushed in one fist and that brave, destroyed look all good mothers wear at funerals. “Matteo,” she says. “Your friend said you wished to speak with me.”
I slip out, take the paper from Livia, and put it in the woman’s hands. “From my daughter,” I tell her. “For your son.”
She unfolds it. The smile aches through her grief like light through stained glass. “He would have liked that star,” she whispers. “He always wanted to be one.”
“He already was.” I swallow hard. “I will look after his family the way he looked after mine.” But no amount of money can make up for a life.
She nods once, then turns away.
When I slide back into the limo, my mother is telling Livia about a drawer she will keep in our kitchen for crayons and emergency cookies.
My father is pretending not to listen while he does nothing but listen.
Cat watches them both with careful eyes that begin to release something I have been trying to unknit since Sicily.
“You faked your death,” my father says without looking at me.
“I did,” I answer.
“You inconvenienced my operations, terrified your mother, and cost us a good man.”
“I know.”
He finally turns. “Do not do it again unless the only alternative is the ground.”
“Understood.”
The edge in him eases, then he makes the tiniest gesture toward Livia. “Bring her to Sunday lunch. Your mother will combust if you do not.”
“Nonno,” Livia interrupts, tugging his coat sleeve, “do you like cake?”
A sound shocks out of him, half laugh, half cough. “I have been known to survive a slice.”
“Good,” she announces. “Because I am hungry.”
My mother pats her knee. “So is Grammy.” She shoots me a look. “I want to see her daily.”
“We literally just arrived and need to get settled.”
“Then settle faster.”
I reach across and take Cat’s hand. She lets me. The city continues moving all around us, rain-glossed and reflective like it’s deciding whether to bless us. For once, I choose to believe it will.
Outside, men move like tides and business continues because it always does. Inside the limo, my daughter holds my father’s hand and my mother plans desserts and Cat, fierce and tired, breathes easier than she did yesterday.
Leo should be here to see this. He isn’t. So I make a note on whatever ledger decides what I owe this city. Then I kiss Cat’s knuckles and say the only thing that fits the day.
“Let’s take Livia home.”