Chapter 45
45
SAMANTHA
I hurry through the small cemetery behind the church of Santa Caterina, letting memory guide my feet. I haven’t been in this Philadelphia graveyard for years, not since the funeral for my Zia Sara.
I was bitter then. Angry. I resented needing to upset my schedule, just so I could stand by a gaping hole and squeeze out a single blood-hot tear for Sara Canna.
Then, the only thing I could focus on was how she made me feel like an imposition. She barely tolerated my sitting at her table. She despised my sleeping under her roof. On her best days, she ignored me. On her worst, she told me I was stupid, greedy, ugly. She never passed up a chance to remind me that I should be grateful she took me in.
Now, I understand my poor aunt a little more. Zia Sara had already lost her husband to cancer. Then she lost her brother—my father—to Antonio Russo’s mad plans. By granting me refuge, Zia Sara exposed herself to her don’s wrath. Every time she looked at me, she saw danger to her own children.
Now, I find them all, not far from the stone wall that surrounds the cemetery. Zio Matteo. Zia Sara. Gianni. Giorgia.
My shudder is pure reflex when I see the date on those last two tombstones. That Night. A nightmare I’ve lived for so long, it’s engraved on my blood.
I’ve brought flowers—five bouquets stolen from the stash for tomorrow. Aiofe had a hand in choosing all the flowers, insisting on tulips and peonies and chrysanthemums. I put one bunch on my uncle’s grave and another on my aunt’s.
I take more time placing the flowers on my cousins’ graves. I feel like I should kneel between them. Like I should bow my head. But in the end, I stand by their feet and talk to them, holding the last bouquet in both hands as I try to keep my voice steady.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “You both deserved so much more. You should have had time to grow up. To find jobs. Friends. Lovers. You should have had the chance to leave Philadelphia, if that’s what you wanted. Or to stay. You should have been able to choose.”
It’s been almost twelve years since That Night. God, we were all so young.
“I don’t know how you’d feel about my new job. If Braiden was Mafia, he’d make me consigliere. Put my law degree to use, defending him and all his clan. But the Fishtown Boys don’t have that. At least, not yet. They call me their Clan Chief. Can you believe it?”
What would Gianni be doing now? Would he be trading stocks on Wall Street, the way he always said he would? Would Giorgia be putting the finishing touches on her first Fashion Week collection in New York?
“I’ve taken my own money,” I tell them. “Savings, from what I earned at the freeport. I’ve hired Harry Asher, a private investigator. I’ve asked him to track down everything he can about the man on the mountain. It won’t be easy, not after all this time. And there was never much to go on in the first place. But if anyone can find out who he was, Harry can.”
I don’t know what I’ll do once Harry gives me a name, an address, a sketch of the man’s life before he lost everything. If he has family, I’ll try to make amends. If he was alone in the world, I’ll try to support something that was important to him. That’s all I can do—try.
I want to say more, but I’m running out of time. I have an appointment in downtown Philadelphia at three, and I still have one more stop before then.
Clutching my last bouquet, I kiss my fingertips and reach out, first to Gianni, then to Giorgia. “I love you,” I say to my cousins. “Goodbye.”
It’s harder to turn away than I expected it to be. It’s even more difficult to walk toward the oldest part of the cemetery. The gravestones are more elaborate here. There are carved angels and, over one site, an obelisk.
I make my way to a mausoleum in the shadows of the church. It looks like a miniature Roman temple made out of white marble, lined with columns. A name is carved over the door: Russo.
Huge floral displays sag beside the door and on the steps—crosses and hearts and one gaudy blanket shaped like a horseshoe. The flowers are dried out. Ribbons are bleached by the sun. Antonio Russo is already being forgotten.
I can’t enter the locked mausoleum. I hesitate, not wanting to leave my flowers on the steps. I don’t want anyone to see them and misunderstand.
But, in the end, it’s more important that I kneel and leave them. I’ll know the truth. That’s what matters
“Eliza,” I say, rising from my knees.
But I don’t know what to say after that. I’m sorry… But her fate was set by others. I miss you… But wherever she is, she already knows that.
I forgive you, I think. But that’s not right either. Eliza never meant to hurt me when she started the affair that led to her death. She wasn’t thinking of me at all when Antonio Russo shoved a gun inside her body and pulled the trigger. She probably believed he’d never follow through on his threat; he’d never seek me out, never try to force me to take her place as his wife.
We were so young. So foolish. We never imagined evil like Antonio Russo existed. We never dreamed of what he could do.
So, in the end, I don’t say anything. I bow my head, and I think about all the good times I shared with my cousin. All the times we laughed.
And then, I really do have to leave. I hesitate at the cemetery gates, looking back at my family one last time. Then I turn toward the street, automatically scanning for paparazzi.
But once news of my disbarment became public, the press finally lost all interest in me. I’d almost be insulted, if I wasn’t so deeply grateful.
I hurry to the nearby parking lot. Liam Murphy waits there, standing beside the Bentley. He hurries to open my door as I approach, and I pick up my pace to meet him.
I can’t be late to my appointment.