Chapter 6: Her Own Funeral

I went to my own funeral in a black dress and a veil that Marta Ranieri had left at the boathouse door without a note.

Santino hadn't wanted me to go.

He said it three times, and the third time he said it so softly that I knew he'd already lost.

"If you see him smile," he said, "you do nothing."

"I know."

"If you see Carlo cry, you do nothing."

"I know."

"Livia."

"I'm going to be a ghost at the back," I said. "I just want to see who comes."

He drove me to the city in the truck and let me out two blocks from St. Rocco's.

He went in the front doors with the family, where the enforcer was expected to be.

I went in through the side with the old women in their black lace.

St. Rocco's smelled like candle wax and wet wool.

My father's funeral had been in this church, and I could still hear the organ in my bones.

Now white roses stood on both sides of the altar, and a closed casket sat at the front with my school photo propped on top.

I looked at my own face, seventeen and smiling, and my stomach turned over.

I slid into the last pew and kept my head down.

Someone sat beside me.

I smelled yeast and cinnamon before I saw the braid.

Marta didn't look at me.

She stared straight ahead at the altar with red eyes.

Her big floury hand found mine on the pew and squeezed it hard enough to hurt.

She knew.

She'd known since the moment she put the veil in my hands, and she had never said a word.

I squeezed back.

Up front, Carlo sat in the first row with his head bowed.

Next to him sat Lucio, in black, with his hair combed and his eyes shining with tears.

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