Chapter 4: Mass

I did not hand them over, and I did not run.

At six in the morning I drove the Lincoln to Avenue C, with Santo in the passenger seat and the children in the back.

The bakery was dark except for the oven light, and the smell of bread came through the glass.

Nonna stood in the doorway before I could knock.

She was eighty, five feet tall, in a black dress and an apron with flour to the elbow.

"Carmine called me at midnight," she said. "He wanted me to go to Mass in his car."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him I'd ride with my grandchildren, or I'd walk."

She patted her apron pocket, and the pocket was long, and heavy at the bottom.

"I'm bringing my own protection," she said. "Don't tell the priest."

I kissed her cheek, and she smelled like yeast and old perfume.

St. Anthony's was full by half past nine.

Four hundred people, from the grocers to the capos' wives, all of them dressed in their good black for a dead man.

Carmine already sat in the first pew on the left, which was the Marzano pew.

He had his arms stretched along the back of it.

The organ started.

I walked up the center aisle with Bianca on one hand and Nico on the other, and Nonna a step behind with her chin high.

Santo stayed in the last row, against the wall, one shoulder stiff under his jacket.

Heads turned as we passed, one after another.

I heard the whispers start.

She's here. She brought them. She isn't afraid.

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