Chapter 7: The Front Pew

I didn't get into his car.

I told him that, and he said, "Understood," and he didn't call again.

On the morning of the funeral, a small black envelope came to my motel door with one line inside: I will not stay long.

I went to St. Joseph's by myself.

My mother's hairdresser was waiting on the steps in a navy dress, with her purse clutched in both hands.

The night nurse stood beside her.

"We'll sit with you," the hairdresser said.

"Thank you."

"She told me you had her chin," the nurse said. "I can see it."

I walked up the aisle between them.

The coffin stood at the front, closed and covered with white roses I hadn't ordered.

The Galli family filled the first four pews.

Capos in dark suits, their wives in black lace, men I had poured coffee for at a hundred Sunday dinners.

None of them looked at me.

I went to the front pew, and Tommaso stood up.

He wore a black suit and a black tie, and Dario was beside him in a small jacket, holding Vittoria's hand.

"The front row is for family," Tommaso said, low.

"She is my mother."

"You signed the papers. You aren't a Galli anymore."

"My mother was never a Galli either, and she's the reason you're alive."

"Please don't make a scene in a church."

"Then step aside."

He didn't.

Somewhere behind me, a cane tapped twice against the floor.

The church went quiet.

Alberto Galli came up the aisle with his silver head high, and every capo in the pews turned to watch him.

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