Chapter 11: The Funeral

Rosaria's POV

I went to my own funeral in a borrowed black dress and a veil that reached my chin.

The chapel at Monreale stood on a hill above the city, and by ten o'clock the road below it was jammed with cars.

Every Family in Sicily had sent someone.

Women in black stood three deep on the steps, holding rosaries and handkerchiefs.

Some of them had never spoken to me.

Nella held my elbow and walked half a step behind me, in a plain grey coat, as a servant would.

"Don't look at anyone," she murmured. "Don't look at the front."

"I won't."

We slipped into the last pew on the left, against the wall.

In my handbag the little pistol lay under a packet of tissues.

The coffin sat at the altar under a blanket of white roses.

It was dark walnut with brass handles.

It was shut.

Nobody in the chapel knew there was nothing inside but sand and a folded blanket.

My mother sat in the first pew with her face in her hands.

She wailed.

It rose and fell, and the women around her wept in answer.

My father sat at her side with his head bowed, his big hand moving over her back.

Venera sat on my mother's other side in black lace.

She was not sobbing.

She stared straight ahead with her mouth set, and once her eyes slid sideways to the guards at the end of the pew.

I watched her.

I had expected to feel hatred.

What I felt was a dry, exact wish to see her face when the truth came out.

The priest said my name.

He said I was a devoted wife and a loyal daughter.

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