The Mafia's Forbidden Captive novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: The Memorial Lunch

At the Lila Tennison Scholarship luncheon Mara tears her sister's locket off her stepmother's neck, and Renata Corvi asks Luciano about his shoulder.

I slept most of Friday behind that grey door.

On Saturday morning a guard knocked and handed me a tray, and he did not meet my eyes.

I ate standing at the window with the photo in my hand.

Below me the river ran brown and fast over the rocks.

At nine, Luciano Sartori was waiting at the bottom of the stairs in a charcoal suit.

If his shoulder hurt, nothing in his face said so.

"You look terrible," I said.

"Thank you."

"I mean you should be lying down. The sutures will tear."

"Then you can sew them again," he said.

"Get in the car."

"Where are we going?"

"To your stepmother's house," he said, "for the lunch she's giving in your sister's name."

I stopped on the last stair.

"How do you know about that?"

"The Lila Tennison Scholarship for Young Bookkeepers is on a church bulletin," he said.

"Silvio Corvi's wife sits on the committee, and she is the woman in that photo."

"That's Renata Corvi?"

"Yes."

"Why would my stepmother have lunch with the wife of your enemy?"

"That's what I'd like you to ask her," he said.

"Out loud, where people can hear the answer."

I looked at him.

"You want me to make a scene."

"I want you to be exactly who you are, in her dining room," he said.

"I'll stand behind you."

I could have refused.

I could have gone to the front door of the big stone house and walked out into the trees.

I got in the car because he had put the photo of Marianne in my room.

He had wanted me to see it first and decide for myself.

That was a better trick than a lock.

We drove into Chevy Chase with the sun on the leaves and the radio off.

Marianne's house was white brick with black shutters, and I had grown up in it.

My father had planted the maple out front the year Lila was born.

Today there were silver balloons tied to the mailbox and a banner across the porch.

IN LOVING MEMORY OF LILA TENNISON.

I stood on the walk and could not move my feet.

"Mara."

Luciano's hand settled in the small of my back, light and warm through my coat.

"Breathe," he said.

"Walk in."

I walked in.

The house smelled of coffee cake and lilies.

Thirty women in good wool stood in my father's living room with plates in their hands.

Half of them had been at my sister's funeral.

They saw me and the talk fell away.

Marianne came through the dining room doorway with her arms already open.

"Mara," she said.

"Darling, where have you been? I've called and called."

She had silver-blond hair cut in a soft bob and a black wool dress.

Around her neck, on a thin gold chain, hung a small gold locket.

I could not hear what she said next.

Lila's locket was the size of a quarter.

It had a tiny scratch across the front where she'd dropped it on the stairs at ten.

Our mother had worn it.

Lila had worn it every day since she turned sixteen.

It had not been returned with the things from the motel.

The police had given Marianne a plastic bag, and she'd told me it held nothing but clothes.

"Where did you get that?" I asked.

"Get what, darling?"

"Around your neck."

Marianne's fingers went to her throat.

"Lila gave it to me," she said.

"Before she moved out. She wanted me to have something."

"She never took it off."

"Mara, please, not in front of people."

"Take it off," I said.

The room had gone silent.

I heard a spoon settle on a saucer somewhere behind me.

"This is my daughter's memorial," Marianne said, and her eyes filled, perfectly, on cue.

"I know you're grieving."

"She's not your daughter," I said.

"Take it off, or I will."

She did not.

I crossed the carpet and put my hand on the chain, and Marianne gasped and grabbed for my wrist.

The clasp snapped.

I pulled the locket free and it swung in my fist, warm from her skin.

Someone said, "Oh my God."

I thumbed it open.

Inside were two photos the size of a thumbnail.

On the left was our mother, laughing in a yellow dress.

On the right was Lila at four years old, missing a front tooth.

I held it up so the whole room could see.

"My sister was wearing this when she died," I said.

"Nobody gave it to you."

Marianne put both hands over her mouth and began to cry for real.

I did not know if it was grief or fear.

I did not care.

Behind me, a low warm voice said, "Luciano. You're out of bed."

I turned.

A woman in a cream dress was coming across the room with her hand out.

Her auburn hair was in a smooth knot, and her brown eyes were full of kindness.

She was beautiful in a way that made other women straighten up.

She took Luciano's hand in both of hers and kissed his cheek.

"We were all so worried," she said.

"How is the shoulder?"

Luciano smiled at her without moving one muscle in his face.

I held the locket tight enough to hurt.

Nobody outside that garage had been told he was shot.

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