Chapter 22: The Funeral

They buried Ignazio Brancato on Sunday morning under a low gray sky.

Three hundred people stood on the steps of the cathedral in Albany in black coats.

The Delmonte women stood together at the foot of them, saying nothing.

Six men in gloves carried the coffin out of the church.

I stood at the top of the steps in black, alone, with my father's compass at my throat.

Remo was three paces behind me, with the crew.

The priest bent his head to my ear.

"Miss Arcuri, the custom," he whispered. "Alone."

"I know the custom."

"I only..."

"Father," I said to the priest, and I did not lower my voice. "Thank you."

I turned around.

Remo's face went still.

I knew that face by now, and I saw the whole thing in it at once.

He had been given an order, and he had decided to disobey it, and he had made himself small at the back.

"Captain Salerno," I said.

The steps went quiet.

"Ma'am."

"Come here."

He walked up the three paces, slowly, and stopped.

"Further," I said. "Stand where I can reach you."

He stepped to my right side.

"You stand at my right hand," I said. "Today, and at the table, and wherever else I decide."

A murmur ran down the steps.

"Ma'am, the old custom..."

"Is for blood," I said. "He is the man who went into the lake for me."

My voice carried to the street.

"My father's name is on that chair. I name who sits beside it. The Family can call him whatever it likes, but he stands where I say."

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