Chapter 17: The Apology

On Sunday the whole parish came to Saint Rita's for the second Mass for the dead brother.

Cecilia sat in the last pew beside Zia, in her mother's navy coat.

She had not slept more than two hours since Monday.

Ettore sat in the front pew with his back as straight as a post.

He did not turn around once.

She watched the back of his neck through the whole homily and hated that she knew every inch of it.

Adamo sat three seats down from him, alone.

Simona sat at the far end with Santi, in black, with a veil.

The women of the parish had left a gap of two pews around her.

After the Mass the hall filled with coffee and trays of pastry and the low hum of two hundred people.

Everyone was looking at the Don's family, and nobody was pretending not to.

Ettore walked to the front of the hall and stopped beside the coffee urn.

He did not climb the little stage.

He did not tap a glass.

He simply stood, and the noise went out of the room.

"Thank you for coming," he said. "I will say this once."

Cecilia stood by the door with her hands pushed into her coat pockets.

"Three years ago I arranged a marriage for a woman who had not asked me to."

A cup clinked.

"Every man who took an envelope from the Pier Forty office since then will return it to the parish fund by Friday."

"Those who return it will hear no more about it. Those who do not will hear their names."

A murmur ran around the walls.

"I told myself it was for her safety. It was for mine."

He turned his head and looked across the whole room to the back.

"Cecilia Fontana was a bride in this parish. She was a good daughter and a good wife."

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