He Faked My Death, So I Let My Family Bury Me novel · Chapter 3 of 32

Chapter 3: Sunday Table

In front of the capos Rosaria says who pulled the trigger, her father raises a hand, and Gaspare catches his wrist.

On Sundays the Lanzetta Family ate together, and every capo had a chair at our table.

Five days to the banquet.

Twelve men sat down with their wives, and my parents sat on Gaspare's right hand, as they had since my wedding.

Venera sat between my mother and my father in a pale blue dress.

She wore my pearl earrings.

I had not given them to her.

My father waited until the roast was served and then stood with his glass.

"Friends, a toast. This family has been tested this month."

The room went quiet.

"My younger daughter acted to defend the honor of this house. Some of you think she acted rashly."

He looked down the table at each of them.

"I say she was brave. To Venera."

Glasses rose all along the table.

Venera blushed and lowered her eyes.

My mother cried a little and dabbed her face with a napkin.

Gaspare did not lift his glass.

I put mine down.

One of the capos' wives noticed and nudged her husband.

I stood.

My chair scraped on the marble, and every head turned.

"Papa, may I say something?"

"Sit down, Rosaria," my mother whispered.

"It will only take a moment."

I looked at the twelve men, and I spoke in the same voice I used to read out the seating plan.

"Venera was not defending anyone's honor. She was angry that a woman insulted her, and she shot that woman in the chest."

Nobody moved.

"Tindaro Ficarra's wife is dead because of it. Two docks have burned. A cargo ship was ambushed, and four of your men died on it."

A capo near the end of the table looked at his plate.

"I'm not saying this to shame my sister. I'm saying it because someone in this room should say it out loud, and I'm the one who is leaving."

I had said more than I meant to.

Gaspare's head came up very slightly.

"Leaving where?" asked the capo's wife.

"On a trip," my mother said at once. "To Naples. To my cousin."

Her voice was bright and false.

"Rosaria is tired."

I let the lie stand.

I had not come to confess anything.

"The war was Venera's doing," I said. "The least this family can do is not make a party of it."

The silence went on.

Then my father slammed his glass on the table and the wine jumped over his hand.

"How dare you!"

He crossed the distance between us.

"Your own sister! After everything this family has done for you!"

His right hand came up.

I did not flinch.

I was thirty-four years old, and the last time he raised that hand to me I was nine.

I thought, he will do it in front of all of them.

Before it came down, another hand closed around his wrist.

Gaspare had left his chair without a sound.

He stood between us now, holding my father's arm in the air.

"Not in my house," he said.

He did not raise his voice.

My father tried to pull free and couldn't.

"She insulted your own capo's family, Don Lanzetta. She insulted my daughter at your table!"

"She told the truth at my table."

Gaspare let go of him slowly.

My father rubbed his wrist and stared.

Everyone saw it.

The men at the table lowered their eyes, because every one of them had learned that the Don's wife was not to be touched.

I had known it for nine years and never had to see it proved.

Venera burst into tears and pressed her face against my mother's shoulder.

"I didn't mean it," she sobbed. "I only wanted her to stop."

My mother glared at me over her head.

"Are you happy now?"

My hands were hot and shaking.

"No, Mama."

Gaspare turned to the head of the table.

"Lunch is over."

The chairs scraped back.

Within a minute the room was emptying, the wives gathering their bags, the capos not looking at anyone.

My father went out last, and he did not look at me either.

I stood among the plates and the cooling roast.

Nella appeared at my elbow and put a glass of water in my hand.

"That was the bravest thing I've ever seen," she whispered. "And the stupidest."

"Both can be true."

"Rosaria."

Gaspare had not left.

He stood at the far end of the room with his hands in his pockets.

I looked at him.

In nine years he had said my name in that voice only a handful of times.

"Come to my study," he said.

I set down the glass and walked toward him.

Everyone had gone, and the room had never felt so large.

He opened the study door and held it for me.

I understood, standing at the threshold, that I did not know what he was going to say.

I did not know whether I wanted him to say it.

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